


Dark Corners

by shakti108



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Angst and Humor, First Time, M/M, writing albums in the basement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-12-30 04:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18308648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: As soon as his higher senses reunited with his body, he swore it would never happen again.





	1. One

The first time was surreal. Maybe because it had been a hot minute since he'd messed around in someone's parents' basement. More likely, though, it was the fact that he'd never messed around with a guy before -- let alone a guy who was probably his best friend. A guy who was even more obsessed with girls than he was.

None of it made sense.

But he also knew there were times when sense flew out the window. Like when your usual self-control was at the bottom of a Stoli bottle. Or when an insanely dexterous hand landed on your dick. Or when you're left dizzy by the soft insistence of lips you'd been inches from a thousand times, but had never felt -- except for a sloppy, half-joking smacker on the cheek.

So when he came like that -- on a ratty old couch, faster than he had since high school -- it felt dream-like, even though it was possibly the most base thing he'd ever done. 

And as soon as his higher senses reunited with his body, he swore it would never happen again.

*****

He was struggling to keep one ear open for the sound of creaking floorboards, no matter what below-the-belt sensations were vying for his undivided attention. God knew he couldn't count on Richie to be alert to such minor things as being caught in a gay tryst.

 _No,_ he corrected himself. _I'm not gay._

He was just enjoying a brain-melting blow job, like any guy would.

Because Jesus Christ, that fucking mouth. In his head, he could admit he'd looked at Richie's lips a few times in the past and thought they seemed … interesting. And maybe, when he was a certain level of drunk, he'd wished they were attached to a girl so he could test them out.

But not in a million years had he thought they'd end up in their current location. Or that he'd let it happen for the third time.

Jon had yet to return the favor, exactly. He'd reciprocated last time, but with a hand -- which made him feel like he was setting an appropriate boundary.

It wasn't that he was repulsed by the idea or anything. He was just terrified, to his very soul, of actually liking cock. That was a whole level beyond liking a skillful mouth that happened to belong to a guy.

Anyway, Richie never seemed to mind. Like right now … The way he was sighing and humming around Jon, you'd swear he'd found Shangri-La. So there was no harm, Jon thought, in letting him get lost there -- as long as one of them had enough sense to remember where they really were.

That's when he heard the floorboards.

"Shit," he hissed, grabbing Richie's hair and yanking.

Richie pulled off and snapped his hand onto Jon's. " _Ow_ \-- What the fuck?"

Jon shushed him, but furtively rubbed his fingertips against the abused area of Richie's scalp. Not because he cared -- he just wanted the baby to stop whining.

"Someone's home," he whisper-yelled.

Incredibly, Richie gave a little shrug. "So what? Door's locked."

Jon gaped at him. "It's gotta be your _mom,_ man."

But instead of shaming Richie, the newsflash sparked a sly grin. "Does it make you feel naughty, Jonny?"

As if on cue, the footsteps resumed, and Jon felt his heartbeat skip. 

"You are seriously disturbed," he bitched in hushed tones.

Richie broke out the pout that made him look like a twelve-year-old -- distressingly so, since his hand was still wrapped around the base of Jon's cock.

"Are you saying I should stop?" Richie asked, with a kind of mock-innocence that made Jon want to punch him.

But since he wasn't well-positioned for a fistfight, he growled instead. "Just … hurry up."

He chose to ignore the smirk he got in response, because a moment later he was cocooned in that addictive heat again.

"Oh, fuck." The words slipped out before he had a chance to stop them, and he could feel Richie's self-satisfied smile. 

He was about to say something snarky, as a counterbalance, but was cut off by the sound of a rattling doorknob.

"Shit, shit." He automatically reached for Richie's hair again, but only got a muffled sound of protest.

That was followed by a knock on the door. "Richie? … Jonny?"

_Oh god, oh god, oh god._

He could _not_ come with Mrs. Sambora calling his name. He would not.

Except that Mrs. Sambora's son was a pervert, and chose to amp up the suction. Jon knew, in that instant, nothing was stopping this crazy train -- no matter how dirty and wrong it was.

And it was very dirty and wrong, because Richie's mom was a mere flight of steps away, and she was probably going to ask if they wanted spaghetti. And how the fuck was he supposed to eat pasta with Richie's parents ever again?

After their son had willingly swallowed Jon's sins, for the third time, like it was nothing?

He slapped a hand over his mouth as his body was wracked by the inevitable, and for a few sweet moments he forgot to care or feel guilty or question his sanity. He didn't even mind when Richie's head came to rest on his hip.

Until the rapping on the door jolted him back to reality.

"Boys!?"

_Jesus Christ._

If there was a hell, he'd surely reserved his seat. The only comfort was that it was probably to the left of Richie's.

He felt a wave of cool air as Richie lifted his head, coughing a couple times before finding his voice.

"Yeah, ma?"

"Oh." At the sound of Mrs. Sambora's voice, Jon began to hastily tuck himself into his pants.

"Why is the door locked? I'm screaming my head off here." 

Richie gave him such a put-upon look, he couldn't help smiling.

"To keep you from buggin' us," Richie replied, then waggled his eyebrows like a cartoon character. Jon felt a ridiculous warmth in his cheeks.

"Richard," Mrs. Sambora said, in a low warning tone.

Again, Jon had to smile. "Uh-oh," he teased. 

Richie rolled his eyes. "Sorry, ma. What's up?"

"I'm starting dinner. Do you boys want spaghetti and meatballs?"

Jon snorted, and Richie gave him a questioning look before answering. "Absolutely. Thanks, mom!"

He turned to Jon and smiled, clearly wanting in on the joke. "Something funny about meatballs?"

Jon shook his head. "Nah. I was just thinking I can't believe you kiss your mama with that mouth."

Richie wrinkled his nose. "I'll take a hit of Listerine before dinner, if you're concerned."

Jon smirked. "It does kill ninety-nine-point-nine percent of germs."

"You buy that shit?" Richie chuckled then ran a hand through his hair. "Um. So you wanna get back to …" He gestured toward their abandoned acoustics.

Jon pushed to sit up. "Well" -- He glanced at Richie's lap -- "do you want …"

Richie waved him off. "I was just talkin' to my mom, man. Mood killer."

"Oh. Right," Jon agreed, feeling relieved -- but, if he were honest, a little disappointed, too.

So he tried again. "But, y'know, maybe later? I mean, if you wanna …"

He hated being so tongue-tied, but the simple truth was, these moments in the aftermath were awkward as hell. He had no idea how Richie was able to be so nonchalant after what he'd just done. But somehow that's how he'd been since the beginning. 

Richie flashed a quick smile. "It's OK. You don't have to."

He hauled himself to his feet before Jon could respond, moving to retrieve his guitar. "C'mon. Before my mom gets back to _screaming her head off._ "

Jon could only stare at first, completely thrown by the rejection. Luckily, a different part of his brain rapidly kicked in -- the part that would never acknowledge a vulnerability. 

He schooled his features into cool indifference. "Yeah. We've screwed around too much already."

Richie glanced at him, too quickly for Jon to read his eyes. 

"Yep," he agreed.

And just like that, the giddiness Jon had felt a minute before was erased, and replaced with … He wasn't sure. But he refused to call it hurt, because that implied a depth of feeling he just didn't have for Richie.

He was definitely _not_ fucking hurt.

Pissed was more like it, he decided as he stood on still-wobbly legs. Because did Richie know how easily he could get tail any time he wanted? And how much he loved pussy? Yet there he was, willing to give that up just to service his buddy? 

_Fuck that._

He grabbed the guitar Richie was holding out -- maybe with more force than necessary, judging by the look he got.

_Fuck that, too._

He offered a tight smile. "Back to work."

Richie hesitated, like he wanted to say something. But then he simply nodded. "Back to work."

 

Later, it turned out it wasn't so hard to face Richie's parents after all. He'd decided, by then, that he was putting a stop to it all. And then he'd expunge it from his memory. He was actually pretty good at that when he needed to be.

Why should this be any different?


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was outrageous when he really thought about it -- the way Richie was casually replacing a guitar string like he'd never sucked Jon off in that very room. Three times.

It wasn't his fault -- any of it. Richie had been the one to lean into him … to bring a hand to his face … to tentatively brush their lips together. He'd been the one to nod toward the suspiciously stained couch in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows near the furnace. 

He'd been the one to yank Jon's pants down and put his mouth there. Jon had been an innocent bystander the whole way.

All three times.

Well, OK. He hadn't just stood there. And yeah, he'd used his own legs to get to the couch. He'd used his own lips and his own hands, and maybe done a little shoving the second time. And the third.

But that was just because Richie was naturally shove-able.

He wasn't a girl. There was no need for caresses, or gentle nudges, or waxing lyrical about beautiful eyes. And it was a good fucking thing, because hell would freeze over before he whispered endearments to that ugly mug.

So even though the whole situation was debauched, and possibly a mortal sin, it had been straightforward each time: He'd stretch out, mess around a little, then get some shockingly good head. 

Bada-bing, bada-boom.

And then it was back to work, like nothing ever happened. Except that after the second time, he'd yielded to Richie's demand for the lyric about giving it up to the King of Swing … because, apparently, everyone did.

Of course, Jon hadn't given it up for a few days now. Which was perfect, he reminded himself as he drew his knees into his chest.

He looked across the room, where Richie was perched on his dad's hideous plaid armchair, fiddling with a guitar string.

_Perfect._

Because as it stood, none of it had been his fault. He'd never instigated anything -- he'd simply accepted the offer of some no-strings-attached orgasms. Like any normal guy would.

His conscience was clean.

There was just one nagging problem. The reason he hadn't given it up in days was that Richie hadn't made a move -- and Jon needed to know why. 

It wasn't that he wanted a fourth time. Fuck no. But he'd assumed Richie would try again, and he'd have to lay down the law. Re-establish the parameters of their relationship. That was how he'd envisioned it in his head.

But Richie wasn't going along with his vision. Instead, he seemed to have lost interest -- and that did not fucking sit well. Did he think he could just start something like that, then pretend it never happened?

Again, fuck no. But Jon was at a loss over what to do about it. So he just sat there like an idiot, staring at Richie's profile.

He tried to look for other scenery options, but other than the washing machine and scattered old furniture, there was little else. Just some shelves crammed with the dusty remnants of Richie's childhood … baseball gloves and Hot Wheels, Etch-a-Sketch and Lite-Brite, and god knew what else. The instruments -- the accordion and the other good shit -- were in the attic.

So Jon was forced to watch Richie. And eventually, the niggling irritation that had kicked around the back of his mind for four days flared to the surface.

Because it was outrageous when he really thought about it -- the way Richie was casually replacing a guitar string like he'd never sucked Jon off in that very room. Three times.

Without any forethought, Jon found himself stalking over to that blindingly obnoxious chair.

"Hey."

Richie didn't look up. "Hmm?"

Jon crossed his arms. "You, uh … You wanna get on the couch?"

His gut clenched at his own words. But they were out, and there was no reeling them back in. Richie froze, his hand poised in mid-air, and it would've been funny if Jon weren't ready to turn and bolt up the stairs.

Richie slowly shifted to face him. "Huh?"

Jon was suddenly very interested in the washing machine. "You know what I mean."

"I don't think I do."

Jon sighed, eyes on Mrs. Sambora's generic fabric softener. "Yes. You do."

Richie set his guitar down, and Jon dared to meet his gaze. "Maybe," Richie conceded. "But you'll have to be more specific."

Jon shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Just … Y'know. I'll do it to you this time."

Richie's eyes widened, but he remained silent.

Jon felt his cheeks flushing and he couldn't stand it. "Or not," he added dismissively. "No big deal. I just figured I owe you."

Richie blinked. "Owe me?"

Jon pressed his lips together, trying to compose himself. But Richie's dumb act was pissing him off.

"You know what I mean."

"You keep saying that."

"Because you know what I mean."

"You can say it all you want, but that doesn't make it true."

Jon growled lowly. "You always know what I mean, you asshole. When we're writing, I can go, Ya-da to the daaw, and you're like, 'Yeah, OK.'"

Richie stared for a moment. "This is different."

Jon couldn't deny that, which aggravated him further. And it only got worse when Richie broke out that doe-eyed thing he used on chicks.

"Jonny? Do you wanna suck me off?"

Jon's stomach plummeted, and he automatically balled his right hand into a fist. Richie glanced at it then smiled a little.

"Just say so."

And that was the last fucking straw. "I can't _say_ that. Are you nuts?"

Richie shrugged. "Then don't say anything. Show me."

Jon clenched his fist so tight, his arm started to tremble. It was clear now he was either going to slug Richie, or show him. And somehow, that moment of clarity -- the vision of two unsubtle choices in front of him -- made everything seem so simple.

With a shaky exhale, he loosened his hand and went with option number-two.

*****

He'd been in this position a thousand times with girls. He loved this position -- straddling the girl's hips, propped on his forearms, hovering just above her in tantalizing anticipation.

Except this time, the girl was Richie. And he was gangly and angular, and not soft in the right places. And he smelled like pizza and Axe deodorant, and he wasn't pretty. 

_What the fuck am I doing?_

Richie must've been wondering the same thing, because he darted his eyes to the side -- obviously growing uncomfortable with their weird suspended animation.

"Um," he began. "Are you gonna …"

"Yeah," Jon whispered, bringing a hand to his friend's cheek and tilting his face toward him. 

Richie glanced at Jon's lips, parting his own almost imperceptibly -- just enough to give Jon another moment of clarity. He closed his eyes and leaned down. 

It turned out Richie did have some soft places. It had been a while since they'd kissed like this, and Jon had forgotten. But now, as those pliant lips yielded so readily, he couldn't help whimpering a little. Almost instantly, he felt self-conscious, so he broke the kiss and dove down to suck along the side of Richie's neck.

It was safer there, and the skin was warm -- and just as soft, he realized.

As he explored, he felt Richie's breath quicken, heard his little gasps, and it emboldened him to keep going -- dragging his lips to a collarbone, pushing the strap of that silly tank aside. With every taste, he dropped a little deeper into the pure sensation of what he was doing, and his anxiety gradually dialed down.

Vaguely, though, he sensed that the more he relaxed, the more he tugged on the fabric separating them, the more Richie's body tensed underneath him. He told himself he was imagining things … until two hands clutched his shoulders.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Jon whipped his head up in alarm. He'd barely done anything yet. "What?"

"Oh, uh, not you," Richie mumbled. "Sorry. Let me up for a sec, OK?"

"Oh. Sure." Jon shifted to allow Richie to slip away, half-afraid he was going to make a break for it up the stairs.

Instead, Richie made a beeline for the shelves across the room, where he reached up for what appeared to be … a stuffed rabbit? Jon watched as he flipped the thing to face away from them, before turning on his heel and striding back.

"I can't believe fucking Mr. Bunny has been watching us every time," Richie griped. "That's fucking creepy, man."

Jon blinked, words momentarily failing him as Richie came to halt beside the couch -- arms crossed, outline of his denim-constrained hard-on proudly displayed.

"You never noticed?" he bitched.

"Um." Jon needed a second to shift his focus away from the crotch in front of his face. "Well, no. I would've made fun of you by now."

Richie frowned, making no move to sit down again. Jon glanced at the shelves then back again.

"Its name is _Mr. Bunny?_ "

Richie dropped his arms by his sides. "Shut up."

Jon bit the insides of his cheeks and tried to don a grave expression. "You know Mr. Bunny isn't real, right?"

"Fuck off."

Despite the harsh words, Richie was clearly fighting a smile. "And so what? It's still messed up. Would you want one of your _dolls_ watching us?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "Ooo, you got me good."

Richie broke into a full grin, and Jon was reminded, not for the first time, how easy he was -- in numerous ways.

"Aren't you gonna lie back down?" he cajoled, with just a hint of the sweet-talk tone the girls always ate up. "Or do you wanna play with your bunny?"

He couldn't help adding the little dig, since he was talking to Richie after all.

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Do you wanna play with my bunny?"

Jon cringed. "We gotta get off this track." He reached for Richie's arm and pulled him down to sit.

"Look around," he instructed. "Any G.I. Joes or Mr. Potato Heads you need to take care of?"

Richie shook his head. "Nah, we're good."

He was still smiling faintly, but had started tapping his fingers on his thigh, in an arrhythmic pattern. Jon recognized the habit instantly.

"You're nervous," he declared, partly out of surprise.

Richie stilled his traitorous hand. "What?" he scoffed, looking to the floor -- in yet another tell.

"You're nervous," Jon repeated, this time with a smile. "How come?"

"I'm not," Richie insisted, an edge to his voice. "I just don't like getting a blow job surrounded by my childhood toys."

Jon barked a laugh. "You've gotten blown in way sketchier circumstances, man. Why are you nervous?"

Richie just rolled his eyes.

"Why?" Jon pressed. "I mean, you haven't exactly been shy before."

Richie shrugged a shoulder. "It feels different this time."

Jon paused, trying to understand. Yeah, it was different this time -- but why would Richie, of all people, have a hard time with lying back and getting some? 

"What's the big deal?" Jon asked, aware that the flippant question sounded bizarre coming from him. "You've gotten head a million times."

Richie side-eyed him. "You're not a girl … Right?"

Jon pulled a face. "I wasn't a girl the first three times, either."

Richie sighed heavily and looked down at his hands. "It's just … I dunno. It makes me nervous."

He angled his head toward Jon. "Can't you just let me be nervous?"

Jon automatically opened his mouth to respond, but then hesitated, taking the words in. He hadn't even considered that option. He'd been relying on Richie to be the sure and steady one, at least when it came to this. But all at once, he was struck by how selfish that was. Maybe even more selfish than lying back to be serviced three times in a row.

"OK," he agreed. "I can do that."

Richie looked at him, surprise evident in his eyes, and Jon dipped his head.

"Can you, uh … Can you let me …?" He still couldn't say the words.

Luckily, Richie must have understood this time, because he tentatively laid a hand on Jon's knee. It was a barely-there connection, but Jon felt his heart start to pound all the same. They'd never touched like that before.

"Yeah," Richie said quietly. "I can do that."


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The taste was different from what he was used to with girls, and their reliable sweetness. But he thought he could develop a palate for it, with a little time.

He knew how cocks worked. He'd had one his whole life. And anyway, there was no big mystery to untangle -- that was the beauty of the dick. It was out there, loud and proud, telling you exactly what it was thinking.

And yet, Jon was mildly terrified of the one currently under his palm … or not quite, since there was still a layer of denim and, presumably, underwear to get through. He'd gotten the ugly purple-striped tank off of Richie, and that in itself was weird.

Each time before, they'd both stayed mostly dressed, shoving aside only what was logistically necessary.

For some reason, though, Jon wanted more skin this round. Probably because it was so oppressively hot on that couch. It was the dead of winter, but between the furnace and the human inferno underneath him, he already felt a trickle of sweat running down his back.

And OK, maybe he was wondering whether that usually hidden skin tasted any different. Just out of curiosity.

As he trailed his lips downward, he felt Richie retract from him slightly, like it was too much. And he had to admit it gave him a little thrill to know he could put Mr. Sex Machine on edge so easily. He needed the infusion of machismo after all the uncertainty and awkwardness of the past couple weeks.

If there was something Jon hated, it was feeling inadequate. So he couldn't resist a little taunting.

"Relax," he cooed as he laid feather-light kisses along Richie's ribs. "Your mamma's not home."

Richie cursed under his breath. "Man, you really don't wanna bring her up right now."

Jon chuckled, and Richie flinched from the touch of his breath.

"Dang," he marveled, hovering his lips just above that flushed skin. "You are _wired._ "

That got a frustrated huff. "I'm waiting for you to get on with it. I coulda written a hit single by now."

Jon lifted his head and Richie did the same. "Right," Jon drawled. "You're the king of the charts. That's why we're workin' outta your mom's basement."

Richie let his head thump back. "Ugh, stop talking about my mom."

Jon smirked. Somehow, the ridiculousness of it all was allowing him to settle. It reminded him this was just Richie. All he had to do was rub him the right way, quite literally.

"You're such a brat," he grumbled, awkwardly inching his way up till they were face to face again.

Richie gave him a look of profound boredom, and Jon smiled before he could stop himself.

"See?" He brushed some of those unkempt bangs away from Richie's eyes. "I don't think you even deserve this."

Richie fake-yawned. "I know I don't."

He started squirming like he was making to get up, so Jon grabbed his face with both hands. "Hold still, asshole."

"Oh, that's hot," Richie carped, voice distorted with his cheeks smashed between Jon's palms.

Jon rolled his eyes then dipped down for a kiss, just to shut him up. It didn't quite work out, as Richie almost immediately moaned into his mouth. But Jon decided he didn't mind the sound so much.

He didn't mind, moments later, when those roughened fingertips found the nape of his neck, massaging slow circles. Or when that hyperactive tongue darted more forcefully into his mouth. Or when he felt Richie's calf wrap around his.

It was fine, Jon told himself -- even though his heart was racing and he could barely breathe through the stifling heat. He figured it was a normal physiologic reaction to doing something forbidden. It had been a long time since he'd felt like he was partaking of a fruit he shouldn't taste.

Their world, especially on tour, had permanently blurred his old boundaries between right and wrong. But this … This was so blatantly wrong, every cell in his body was sounding alarms. So it was something of a miracle, he supposed, that he was forging ahead anyway --

" _Fuck._ "

Jon abruptly broke the kiss as a spark shot through his cock and into the core of his belly. He felt Richie's smile against his temple, and then the pulse of his hips as he pressed up to mesh their bodies once again.

"You like that?" Richie asked lowly, gliding his fingertips down Jon's spine.

There was a smugness in his voice that Jon instantly wanted to quash.

He shifted for a better position and ended up knocking Richie's precariously perched leg off the edge of the couch. His own followed, but he found that when he planted his foot on the floor, it gave him just the leverage he needed.

This time it was Richie who gasped, pressing his head back into the couch as Jon rocked against him.

Jon opened his mouth, reflexively poised to gloat, but nothing occurred to him. It suddenly seemed like a waste of energy to speak, when it would only distract him from the raw sensation of their bodies syncing. It seemed far better to pay attention -- to the sound of a caught breath, the texture of unfamiliar skin, the scents that had seemed odd just minutes ago but were now rapidly drawing him in.

To that continuous rippling pleasure deep inside. 

Jon tangled his fingers in Richie's hair, angling his head just enough to latch onto the pulse point of his neck, lapping at the salty warmth there. The taste was different from what he was used to with girls, and their reliable sweetness. But he thought he could develop a palate for it, with a little time.

Jon fell so deep into the exploration, he was taken by surprise when Richie clamped both hands onto his ass and arched into him. He just barely stopped himself from biting down, but managed to pull away, choking out some invented profanity.

He heard Richie's breathy laugh. "Who's wired now?"

Again, Jon simply couldn't allow the saucy behavior to stand.

"C'mon," he ordered, forcing himself to lift up a bit. "On the floor. There's no room here."

Richie's pupils were already blown with arousal, but Jon could still detect a flicker of surprise.

"The floor? Were you raised by wolves?"

Jon smiled wryly, skimming his fingertips down Richie's arm. "Wanna find out?"

Richie visibly swallowed. "Dude, I don't even know what that means. But yeah."

Jon wasn't sure what he meant, either. Strange thoughts and words had just been cropping up lately. Inwardly, he willed himself to simply go with it.

He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and flung it onto the hard vinyl floor. He realized then it wasn't really a blanket, but one of those lumpy knit things that looked handmade by a grandma. He silently prayed it wasn't the work of Richie's dear old nana. If he'd flipped over Mr. Bunny, this would send him off the cliff. 

But Richie didn't seem conscious of their landing pad as they gracelessly collapsed to the floor. As soon as they were grounded, he dragged Jon toward him again, and Jon offered no resistance.

"Much better," he breathed, planting his knees on either side of Richie's thighs and his forearms by his head.

There was a moment where their eyes connected, and Jon felt a tug in his gut that held him on the spot. Richie furrowed his brow a little, then reached up to touch his cheek.

Without meaning to, Jon shied away from the contact. 

"Sorry," Richie murmured, dropping his hand.

Jon shook his head slightly. "No. I didn't …"

He wanted to tell Richie he'd simply been taken off guard, like he'd been with the hand on his knee. It was just disorienting to go from pizza and snide jokes to tender caresses and other things he shouldn't do with his best friend. His reflexes were confused, he supposed.

But there was no way to form the sentiment into spoken words. So he decided to trust his body to articulate his feelings.

Easing his weight down, Jon rolled his pelvis in a deliberate circle, pulling something like _hung-uh_ from Richie's lips.

He smiled a little as he continued to undulate. "Sorry?"

Richie returned the smile, and Jon knew they were OK. He also knew that little sound was so ludicrous and so pleasing, he wanted to hear it again. So he kept up the excruciatingly slow assault, watching the way Richie squeezed his eyes shut, the way he bit his bottom lip -- probably to avoid any further humiliating gibberish. 

It didn't matter how much he restrained his sounds, though. Richie had never been subtle with his facial expressions, so there was no ambiguity about his feelings at the moment. Jon liked that, though he'd never say so.

He preferred silent observation, like noticing the way Richie's jaw loosened and his lips parted when he increased the pressure just a bit. Or the way the skin across his eyes softened when Jon brought his fingertips to that spot right behind his ear.

When his eyes fluttered open again, Jon forgot to stop staring. He didn't even register that he'd been caught until Richie smiled faintly.

_Shit._

He began to grind his hips in earnest then, hoping Richie would look away and leave him in peace. But the bastard just grasped his arms, before tugging impatiently at his shirt sleeves.

"You're still wearing this?" 

Jon growled a little, hating the disruption. But he could acknowledge there was a clothing imbalance between them.

"Hang on," he sighed, trying his best to sound inconvenienced as he sat up. He was pretty sure, though, the quaver in his voice was a dead giveaway.

Luckily, Richie seemed absorbed in the disrobing process, based on the fingers scrabbling at Jon's belt. Jon promptly chucked his shirt onto the couch then swatted at Richie's hands, fearing for his cock's safety. 

"Easy there. _Christ._ "

He kept his gaze fixed on his own hands as he carefully unzipped, unwilling to acknowledge that Richie was taking in the show. He started to shove his pants down, then hesitated -- unsure if he should take them off entirely or settle for a perfunctory freeing of erection.

Full-on nudity might send the wrong signal … whatever that meant.

"Go for it," Richie encouraged, in obvious understanding.

The words were breezy, but there was a distinct crack in his voice. So even though Jon kind of felt like an idiot, the sting was lessened knowing they were both losing their cool facades.

Still, as he shed his pants then crouched over Richie, naked as the day he was born, another voice broke in.

_You're hard for your best friend, you fucking perv._

True as it might be, Jon realized, that hard-on wasn't going anywhere -- especially under Richie's intense gaze. Especially now that he was reaching out to touch him, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

Jon groaned softly as that warm hand found him … closed his eyes as the thumb gently circled his tip, spreading the fluid there. He was hazily aware that he'd had a plan. The details were sketchy, though, and they were being crowded out by his primal instincts.

When he opened his eyes again, Richie was smiling, but with a different undercurrent this time.

"C'mere," he coaxed.

And Jon almost did it -- almost crawled for it. Until he remembered it wasn't supposed to go that way again, however much they both wanted it.

"Rich. I … uh." 

Richie looked at him, continuing to silently stroke.

"Um," Jon tried again, but found he couldn't speak with that sinfully skilled hand on him. So he took hold of Richie's wrist and waited for him to let go. 

"Can I?" he asked shakily, already reaching for the button on Richie's jeans.

Jon tried to focus on the task, not its meaning. But as he pulled those jeans and boxers down, it was impossible to ignore how much he was affecting his friend. All at once, that familiar anxiety resurfaced, and the notion that this was "just" Richie was suddenly laughable. 

Or really, it always had been.

_Just keep going,_ Jon told himself, tossing the clothes aside. _Go._

He crawled up till his face was hovering over that hard, hot flesh.

_It's just a cock._

Which was mostly true -- except for the fact there was a whole human being attached to it. A human being who wrote songs with him, and knew he got claustrophobic, and knew he couldn't hold his vodka, and knew he was a moody bitch but tolerated him anyway.

"You don't have to." Richie's voice was barely above a whisper, but it startled Jon anyway.

He looked up sharply and saw that Richie's cheeks were burning red, whether from arousal or self-consciousness he didn't know. Maybe the second, though, since he immediately cast his eyes to the side.

And in a flash, Jon felt weirdly sure of his next move.

"Hey," he croaked, crawling farther up. "I know."

Just as he was reaching to cup Richie's cheek, those eyes found his again. This time, Jon decided not to flinch.

"I know," he repeated, leaning down. 

He intended it to be a simple reassuring kiss. He wasn't anticipating the way their cocks would brush together, or the current that would roll through him, leaving him short of breath.

"Christ," he hissed.

He would've been embarrassed, yet again, if Richie's fingers weren't digging painfully into his biceps.

"Jonny."

It was just his name, and he'd heard Richie say it a million times, a million ways. But never like that, in a tone so soft and needy Jon felt a little woozy.

Richie pressed up into him, and he could only shut his eyes against that silken heat moving along the underneath side of his cock.

" _Ah._ God, Rich."

Instinctively, he lifted up a bit, and when Richie openly whined, he had to smile. "Hang on."

He simply needed a little space -- just enough so he could experiment. Just enough so he could slide the tip of his cock up that long shaft and over its head --

Jon heard himself groaning wantonly at the coil of pleasure that moved through him.

He knew, of course, that rubbing his dick on anything short of hot coals was bound to feel good. But he hadn't expected _this_ to feel so perfect. 

As he retraced his path along that glorious mix of texture and temperature, he closed his eyes again. Because if he was in the dark it was OK to let sounds free up from his chest -- to move the way he organically wanted to move, without second-guessing.

"Rich …"

Jon didn't have a thought to finish -- it just felt right to say his name. Richie responded only by taking a gulp of air, then sighing it away. And somehow the voiceless answer made him hungry for more contact.

Jon settled his hips and thrust hard, rubbing their balls together and drawing a harsh, choked moan -- from both of them, maybe. He couldn't be sure, as his cognizance was slowly melting under the heat of the closed-off room.

"Fuck," he gasped, falling into an intuitive rhythm. "Uh … OK?"

Richie clutched at his shoulders and groaned low in his chest.

Jon nodded, even though he wasn't sure what he was acknowledging. He just knew he needed to keep going. He sprawled himself out so they were chest to chest, and the added friction to his sensitized nipples almost pushed him to the precipice then and there.

Jon dropped his head to the curve of Richie's neck, wanting to get lost in the dark again. That place where he could just feel … just swallow the humid air and listen to Richie pant more erratically with each thrust. Feel that palm ride down his now-slick back to the curve of his ass -- the other hand still pressing into his shoulder blade.

And even through all the other sensations that were gradually pulling him apart from the inside, Jon could feel how those two hands were trembling -- how Richie's whole body was holding on to something he couldn't see.

He remembered, then, the words they'd exchanged when they were sitting on the couch.

On an impulse, Jon angled his head and landed a kiss on a random patch of skin near Richie's ear. "It's OK."

As they continued to rock against each other, he whispered it a couple more times. Just because. When he finally felt that sweet pressure gathering inside, he said Richie's name again and those arms tightened around him. And that was all it took for him to let go … and for Richie to follow.

For a while they lay there, in a messy, uncomfortable heap. Jon was too sated and too exhausted to do anything about it. And in a weird way, it felt good to just let the mess be, without rushing to fix it.

Eventually, though, Richie started rubbing circles on his low back. "You're getting heavy."

Jon blew out a breath, grudgingly rolling onto his side. Richie pushed onto his forearms and looked down at him with a small smile. Without another word, he got up and walked over to the washer, where there was a basket full of towels.

As he returned, with two in hand, Jon tried not to stare at the casual nakedness.

Richie dropped a towel on his lap, then flopped down beside him to clean up -- even though, it occurred to Jon, it would've been easier to do it standing.

When he was done, he ditched the towel and rolled onto his side, facing Richie but carefully avoiding eye contact. Jon wanted to let him speak first, which he reliably did.

"Jonny? Why'd you keep saying it's OK?"

He glanced up and saw that Richie was looking at the ceiling. "Well …" He felt his cheeks start to warm. "It's just, I know it's weird."

For a long moment, Richie didn't say anything.

"I mean," Jon amended, "when you're used to girls. It's hard to let … you know."

The silence stretched out, until he started scrambling for a better explanation -- one that preferably made sense. But then Richie cleared his throat.

"I wasn't scared, if that's what you mean."

"No," Jon replied quickly, because that seemed like the right answer.

"I was kinda nervous is all," Richie said, keeping his gaze stubbornly skyward. "But I liked it."

Jon just stared at his profile for a beat, feeling simultaneously giddy and terrified at the admission.

"Um." Richie scratched at an eyebrow. "Did you?"

Jon nodded, then realized it wouldn't be heard. "Yeah."

Richie still refused to look at him, but his lips twitched toward a smile. "Good."

Jon licked his lips, trying to work up his courage. "No floor next time, though."

Finally, Richie looked at him, his eyes sparkling with surprise and, possibly, something else.

"It was your idea." He glanced at their makeshift sex nest. "And now I gotta wash these towels and whatever the fuck this thing is."

Jon smirked. "But you liked it," he reminded.

Richie rolled his eyes. "Whatever. C'mon." He sat up and started fishing around for his clothes. "Help me figure out how to use the washer."

Jon flopped onto his back again. "Christ. Seriously?"

"Oh, OK," Richie griped as he pulled his boxers up. "Then you can explain this to my mom. I'll watch."

Jon sighed heavily. "Fine."

Richie leaned over him to retrieve the clothes he'd tossed on the couch, landing his palm on Jon's chest for a moment.

"Here," he said, dumping the clothes on him before pushing up to stand. As he walked away, evidence of their sins in hand, Richie paused and turned around.

"Definitely no floor next time," he said, with finality.

Jon waited till he'd turned away to let himself smile.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had even less dignity now -- sitting on Richie's bed, waiting for him to come back so they could have sex while his parents were at work.

Jon pounded on the door for a third time before shoving his hands back in his jacket pockets.

"Come the fuck on," he said through gritted teeth, bouncing on his toes to generate any bit of warmth he could.

He knew he didn't really have the right to be impatient. It was barely noon, and Richie was almost never awake at such an ungodly hour. That was why Jon normally arrived around 1:30.

But not today. He hadn't slept well and by late morning he'd been antsy to get out of the house. So he'd jumped in his car and driven straight to Richie's parents, even though their son would be unconscious -- and pissed about the early summoning.

_Whatever._

Jon rapped on the door again -- with his palm this time, in case that would better hit Richie's hearing frequency.

It occurred to him he could get back in his car, which was actually equipped with a heater. But he just didn't have anywhere to go to kill time. Was he supposed to stroll around the Woodbridge Mall with the stay-at-home moms and their brats? They'd think he was a pedophile.

Anyway, it wouldn't kill Richie to act slightly more like a normal human, just for one day.

"Come _on,_ you lazy shit."

A moment later, he saw a shadow through the curtained window on the door. At the snap of the deadbolt, he stood up straight and crossed his arms -- primed to give Richie some what-for.

But when the door opened, he wasn't confronted with six feet of hairy, hung-over bitchery. Instead, he was looking down at a cute brunette pixie -- makeup and hair mussed in that unmistakable just-been-fucked way.

"Oh, hi," she greeted, with a bright smile. "Richie said it would be you."

At first, Jon just stood there dumbly, all thoughts of the unbearable cold banished. In fact, there was a discernible heat building under his skin. 

The pixie stepped back and opened the door wider. "Come on in."

_Like she fucking owns the place._

Her smile faltered a bit, and Jon finally shook himself out of … whatever was happening to him.

"Hey." He flashed his patented just-for-ladies smile. "Thanks."

He stepped into the foyer and immediately took off his jacket, tossing it onto the staircase banister. Just to show her who actually owned the place.

The girl simply smiled again. "I'm Jennifer. I already know who you are," she added with a shy little laugh.

Despite the maiden routine, though, she was blatantly raking her eyes up and down Jon's body. He allowed himself to relax a little -- At least she didn't seem like one of those chicks who thought this was Step One to becoming Mrs. Richard Sambora. And in all probability, she wasn't the type Richie would accidentally fall in love with.

Not that it was _his_ problem, Jon reminded himself. If Richie wanted to get into another disaster of a relationship, god bless him. 

Before he could fall too deep into that mental soap opera, the familiar creak of floorboards distracted him. He looked to the top of the stairs, where Richie stood scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Why you so early, man?" he asked, slowly descending the stairs -- clad in his most beat-up sweats and hole-ridden Zeppelin t-shirt.

That was another positive sign: Richie didn't care what he looked like in front of this girl.

"I didn't really notice the time," Jon lied. "Sorry."

As he landed, Richie waved him off then stretched his arms overhead with a dramatic yawn. "S'alright. I just gotta run her home."

Jon barely contained a smirk. Whenever Richie used "her" like that, it meant he couldn't remember the chick's name.

Pixie Jennifer looked back and forth between them. "Oh, I could walk home -- It's not far," she said, with the kind of faux demurring that drove Jon nuts.

Richie shook his head. "No way, darlin'. It's freezing out."

Jennifer smiled then wrapped her arms around Richie's waist. "You're such a sweetheart," she gushed, and Jon tried not to gag.

He wanted to inform her of just how many girls Richie had been a "sweetheart" to in his young yet highly productive life. But again, Pixie Jen didn't seem like the type who'd care. It was more likely she was just angling for a second round in the future.

_Or maybe a threesome._

Jon had to shift his stance as his cock stirred a little -- which wasn't exactly a shock. He just wasn't sure, in that scenario, which long-haired brunette was the bigger turn-on. And that was more than a little disturbing.

"Take the ride, Jennifer," he intoned, mostly to redirect his dirty mind. "Then he can get me a pizza on the way back."

Richie gave his pixie a squeeze and flashed Jon a silent "thank you" for the name reminder.

"Yeah, sure," Richie said a beat later, feigning annoyance as he broke the embrace. "Anything else, your majesty?"

"Beer," Jon decreed, wandering into the living room and flopping onto Mr. Sambora's recliner.

"Dude, where do you think you are? The fridge is stocked."

Jon merely closed his eyes. "Don't be long. I'm starving."

Richie huffed indignantly, but Jon knew it was a token protest. He'd get his way, even though he was outright lying. He didn't give a shit about food. He'd eaten two breakfasts just to fill up his long morning. But for some reason, he needed to establish -- for all three of them -- who really belonged there. He chalked it up to crankiness from sleep deprivation.

Jon kept his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of coats and keys being gathered, and some murmuring about how much "fun" last night had been. Again, he valiantly controlled his gag reflex.

"Nice to meet you, Jon," Jennifer called out, as the front door opened.

Jon didn't bother to even turn his head. "Bye."

He knew he was being kind of a dick, but he was too tired to care about a stranger's feelings. He was there to write some songs and get shit done -- and that was all.

*****

"What's with you?" Richie groused, folding his pizza slice in half before taking an enormous bite.

Jon sighed. "Why do you have to _fold_ it every time?"

Richie just gazed at him from across the kitchen table, chewing his food with exaggerated precision. Jon waited while he swallowed then took a swig from his beer can.

"That's how I eat pizza," he finally replied.

"That's not an answer."

"It's my answer."

He started licking his fingers -- his disgusting fingers -- and Jon had to look away.

"Speaking of answers," Richie said brightly, "you didn't give me one. What's up with you today?"

Jon kept his eyes on Mrs. Sambora's salt-and-pepper shakers, which were shaped like pigs. He reached to arrange them so one had its snout in the other's ass.

"I got, like, two hours of sleep. I'm just tired."

"Tell me about it," Richie muttered. "You woke me up at noon, man."

Jon rolled his eyes. "You should be up by then anyway."

"Why? Am I a fucking farmer?"

Jon smiled despite himself, and Richie promptly giggled like a doofus. Sometimes he felt annoyed by how hard Richie tried to amuse him -- how much he obviously loved amusing him. Mostly, though, he could tolerate it.

Richie reached for his beer, but just tapped the can with his fingertips. "So, uh, you had a wild night, huh?"

There was a forced casualness to the inquiry, and it triggered a flutter in Jon's belly that made him feel like a sap. But the simple truth was, the little note of jealousy was very pleasing.

"Yep," Jon confirmed. Richie didn't need to know everything, like the fact that he hadn't hooked up with a girl. 

Richie propped his feet on the chair next to him and yawned -- a study in phony indifference. 

"Hm. Where'd you go?"

"Some club in Staten Island. Alec's friend was playing."

"Oh." Richie stuck his bottom lip out, and Jon couldn't tell if he was pondering something, or if he was offended he'd been left behind. 

"Any good?" he asked.

Jon shrugged before polishing off his beer. "Eh. There were some hot girls, though."

Richie lifted his beer in salutation. "Then the trip to the bowels of New York was worth it, I guess."

Jon just smiled. "We're goin' to the Ritz tonight. Another one of Al's friends. Wanna come?"

Richie eyed him briefly. "What, is Al your new best friend?"

Jon felt his smile widen. He'd never realized how much he enjoyed Richie's jealous side.

"Nah," he replied. "But they say it's good to go out with your ugly friends."

Richie snorted. "You're a bitch." He started fiddling with the lid on the sugar bowl, which was shaped like an elephant -- because Mrs. Sambora was careless when it came to species mingling.

"And that's bullshit," Richie added. "Like you need help getting girls to look at you."

A little color rose in his cheeks as he spoke, and Jon couldn't deny liking that, too. So he decided to nudge the thread along.

"Maybe not," he agreed. "By the way, your little girlfriend was flirting with me before you came down."

He'd decided, during his alone time on the recliner, that it was really his duty to say something, to ensure his best friend didn't fall for a harpy.

Richie huffed a soft laugh. "Yeah, I'm not surprised."

He returned his attention to the sugar bowl -- lifting the lid then replacing it -- and Jon felt a pang of guilt.

"Who cares about her?" he said dismissively. "You're not exactly begging for dates, either."

Richie glanced at him. "Do you really want me to come tonight?"

Jon furrowed his brow, confused by the sudden question -- and the doubt in Richie's voice.

"Sure," he replied, making the underlying "duh" evident. "I'll do even better with _two_ ugly friends."

Richie chuckled and shook his head, before going back to the all-consuming sugar bowl. Jon kept studying him, unsure of what was running through that labyrinth of a mind. Usually, Richie laid his cards out on the table. But when he wanted to hide something, he could. Most people didn't know that.

Eventually, Richie dropped his feet to the floor and pushed his chair back.

"I'm gonna jump in the shower real quick."

Jon groaned. "You hafta look cute just to write some shit?"

Richie gave him an odd little smile. "Why not?"

For some reason, Jon chose that moment to look at the condiments he'd perversely arranged -- a warmth pooling in his low belly. He cleared his throat.

"Um, OK. I'll just go downstairs and …" He gestured vaguely toward the basement door, like that finished the thought.

Richie stood up. "You could," he said off-handedly. "Or you could come upstairs."

For the second time in a couple hours, Jon found himself staring stupidly. 

"I - I thought you were gonna take a shower."

Even as the words slipped from his lips, Jon couldn't believe what a fucking moron he was.

Richie sighed. "I am," he said slowly. "But then I'll get out, and I'll be naked."

Jon started to blink rapidly, and he dimly wondered if he was having a mild seizure.

"You said no more floors," Richie reminded, smiling over his shoulder as he strolled away.

Just like the other day, Jon was left a little dizzy by the rapid shift from pizza to … whatever Richie had in mind. Luckily, his feet didn't need his brain to be operational, and after a brief hesitation they were propelling him forward.

*****

He hadn't felt so awkward since his Spin The Bottle days in middle-school. Or actually, when he thought about it, he had even less dignity now -- sitting on Richie's bed, waiting for him to come back so they could have sex while his parents were at work.

Not to mention the room still smelled of drug-store perfume and sex. It was absurd and humiliating to just wait there, like he was the next chick in the queue. 

He also knew, despite it all, there was no way his body would let him leave.

He'd already lifted the shades a bit and cracked a window so the room wasn't so cave-like. But he still needed something to occupy his mind. He looked to the side of the bed where, sure enough, one of those ever-present acoustics lay. He picked it up and starting plucking some chords, just to give his hands something to do.

Gradually, the familiar movement and sound started to calm his nerves … until the bedroom door opened and he almost jumped out of his skin.

He glanced over to see Richie, wearing nothing but a towel and smugness, and he immediately cast his eyes down. He resumed playing, like they were in the basement doing their usual thing -- though he involuntarily flinched when he heard the door shut. 

"What are you doing?"

Jon stilled his hands and looked up. Richie was leaning back on his dresser, its surface littered with ticket stubs, lighters, unpaid parking tickets and hideous jewelry.

"You should recognize what I'm doing," Jon replied, playing a G major.

Richie smiled softly. "Guess so."

Jon had some other snide remark at the tip of his tongue. But he got distracted by the water droplet running from Richie's sopping-wet hair, down his chest, to his hipbone -- just visible above the questionably secured towel.

"OK then," Richie said, pushing away from the dresser and taking a couple steps toward him. "Can you stop playing that kindergarten shit? You're hurting my soul."

Jon stopped but didn't loosen his grip on the guitar.

Richie chewed on his bottom lip, like he did any time he wanted to look innocent. "I guess I was being too subtle when I mentioned the naked part."

Jon took a steadying breath. "You said you'd be naked. And you're not, by the way."

Richie smiled. "I can easily remedy that. If you want …"

Jon kind of wanted to throttle him, and kind of wanted other things. So he shrugged.

"Whatever." He leaned over to put the guitar down, just for an excuse to look away. "Seen it a million times."

When he sat up again, Richie was regarding him with narrowed eyes, like he was trying to read the truth. So Jon donned as neutral an expression as he could with an almost-naked person standing two feet away.

"Do you wanna go downstairs?" Richie asked quietly.

Jon opened then closed his mouth. He realized he wasn't sure what downstairs meant between them anymore. Did it mean work or … the couch in the corner? He did, though, have a feeling for what Richie was asking. So he shook his head slightly.

Richie bit his lip again, clearly suppressing a victorious grin.

"Could you stand up then? I feel weird."

"You should," Jon grumbled, even as he rose to his feet. "You're a weirdo."

"Good point," Richie agreed, stepping forward and slipping his hand to the nape of Jon's neck.

And just like that, Jon forgot about pizza and awkwardness and shame, and automatically tilted his head to meet those full, soft lips.

Immediately, he noticed that Richie had brushed his teeth, and it made him self-conscious about his own beer-and-garlic flavor. Richie didn't seem to mind, though -- not with the way he was sighing into Jon's mouth and inhaling his breath.

Still, as they pulled each other closer, hands roaming, a new discomfort arose. They'd never kissed standing up before, and Jon couldn't find his bearings. He grasped Richie's shoulders and gently pushed him away. 

"What?" Richie asked, bleary-eyed and breathless.

"Nothing," Jon said quickly. "It's just … I've never kissed someone taller than me."

Richie smiled dopily. "Oh. You need me to crouch down or something?" he offered, with a teasing twinkle in his eyes.

Jon felt a flare of annoyance. "I'd rather you get on your knees."

The words were out before he could think about how crude they were. But again, Richie seemed unfazed.

"That what you want?" he asked, darting his tongue out, consciously or unconsciously, to wet his bottom lip.

Jon's legs went a little wobbly. "Um. If …" 

Richie nodded then knelt down like it was nothing, and Jon instantly felt his heart start to pound against his ribs. He still couldn't quite understand it -- how Richie was so willing, how it was so easy for him to do this.

He couldn't quite believe it, even as those slightly shaky hands pushed his jeans and boxers down. Even as -- _Ah, fuck_ \-- he took hold of him and gently lapped at his tip.

Jon closed his eyes, swaying on his feet while that eager tongue dragged along the underneath side of his cock. Groaning as Richie's free hand snaked around the back of his thigh, just under his ass.

He threaded his fingers into the wet locks, needing to hold on in some way. But something about the contact made him snap his eyes open. When he looked down -- to a bird's eye view of those slick lips taking him in, those eyes shut tight in concentration -- it struck him that Richie just might do anything to make him happy.

And it was kind of overwhelming, the mix of emotions that washed over him -- to feel thrilled and repulsed in such quick succession.

"Rich," he gasped. "Stop."

Richie made a little sound in his throat, then slowly pulled off -- making Jon almost ache with the loss. Richie looked up at him, plainly baffled, and Jon automatically tangled his fingers into his hair again.

"I changed my mind … Let's lie down, OK?"

Richie blinked, his face softening in obvious relief. "Oh. Yeah."

He shifted back, almost toppling onto his ass, and his sheepish grin made Jon feel slightly less inept. He managed to gracelessly kick his jeans off, then shed his sweatshirt -- with no help from Richie, who was struggling to his feet like a gangly colt.

Once he was standing, Richie had the compassion to glance away from Jon's naked arousal. Or at least it seemed like compassion.

Wordlessly, Jon stretched out on the bed -- on the bedspread, since he wanted nothing to do with those sheets. He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath as Richie climbed on, knees landing between his spread legs.

He was expecting Richie to dive right back in, so his breath hitched in surprise when those lips softly found his inner thigh, cool wet ringlets of hair tickling his balls. The light sensations were weirdly overstimulating, after the heat and insistent pressure just moments before.

Richie, apparently, went into a different mode when he wasn't on his knees. Because he was peppering Jon with tortuously delicate nibbles along his thighs, his hipbones, his belly -- flirting with, but never touching, his most hungry places.

Jon didn't realize how hard he was clenching his jaw until a dull pain collected in his temples. He opened his mouth with a frustrated growl.

"Come the fuck on."

They were the same words he'd uttered on the freezing-cold porch, but this wait was much, much worse.

Richie paused and lifted his head. "You're really bossy today."

"Rich, for Christ's sake." Jon twisted his hips shamelessly, ignoring the hint of a whine in his voice.

Richie crawled up, just averting any contact with Jon's cock, till they were eye to eye.

"Well, don't stop now," he murmured, lips curling upward. "Keep telling me what you want. I mean … I kinda know from what you did to those salt shakers."

Jon felt his cheeks flush. "Right. I'm sending you messages through condiments."

Richie smiled in that infuriating way he had. "Then tell me."

Jon growled again, because it was so enraging -- that Richie thought it was cute to make him say it. When really, saying things was the hardest part. The more he allowed himself to say things, the more he showed that he needed them. That was way different from casually going along for the ride.

"Just … just put your mouth on me."

Richie leaned down for a gentle kiss, and Jon took the opportunity to bite his lower lip.

He smiled in satisfaction when Richie pulled back with a little yelp. That was a perk of being with a guy, Jon realized. He'd never do that to a girl -- even if she managed to be as annoying as Richie.

"Asshole," Richie grumbled, but with an undertone of grudging admiration.

"Put your mouth where I don't bite," Jon suggested.

Richie smiled, a gleam in his eyes. "Then you better hope _I_ don't."

Against his will, Jon shivered as Richie dipped his head, laying a wet trail from the base of his throat to his sternum, then down to his ticklish side ribs. Again, the bastard bypassed his cock, landing once more at his inner thighs.

"Rich, please," Jon almost whimpered, bucking his hips.

Asking nicely must've done the trick, because a moment later there was a glorious moist heat surrounding one of his balls. There was the perfect agonizing pleasure of gentle suction.

Somehow, without his full cooperation, Jon soon found himself with his knees bent up, calves wrapping onto Richie's shoulders, being drawn deeper into that cavernous heat -- so much farther, so much surer than with any girl. He didn't even have the will to protest when that searing-hot tongue probed behind his balls.

Logically, he knew he should. He knew this was the most wrong thing they'd done yet. He knew he should have a clear boundary with Richie. There had to be some kind of limit.

But then that blessed tongue found what it was searching for, sparking an internal geyser of sensation that took Jon's breath away. 

"Fuck, Rich," he hissed, slapping a palm onto the bed before he could control himself.

There was an unintelligible murmur from below, and even that sent little shock waves up into some hidden place in his pelvis. 

"Jesus Christ."

In some part of his mind, Jon realized that boundaries and limits were concepts, but this raw physical connection was real. And it was winning.

He reached down to clutch Richie's hair, now drying and unexpectedly soft under his hand. He tugged a little, partly because his neglected cock was suffering -- partly because he thought that tongue might kill him.

Richie was apparently done being a tease, because he yielded seamlessly to the unsubtle signals. As that mouth swallowed him whole, Jon didn't bother to contain his moans, too far gone to worry about minor things like pride. 

Instead, he just held fast to the bedding underneath him, afraid he'd pull Richie's hair out from the roots otherwise. He simply gave in to the way that tongue moved around him, savoring him … Simply accepted that his best friend wanted to feel and taste him that way. And when two fingers slid to that place Richie's tongue had nearly destroyed, Jon let it happen.

"God, Rich," he groaned, helplessly writhing under the unrelenting attention.

The end shouldn't have been a shock. This was their fifth time, and the fourth time Richie had sucked him off. Yet Jon was still left voiceless by the way Richie didn't just _let_ him release -- but hungrily drank him in. How he kept milking him as the last waves of his orgasm rocked his body. Kept sighing and humming around him as he settled back into the reality of being in that bed. In a not-quite-dark room where he shouldn't be.

At some point, lying there with Richie's head on his hip, those hazy concepts of boundaries and limits started to solidify again. He became keenly aware of the space around them, and how it wasn't a hidden corner in a basement anymore.

His gut clenched as his mind grappled with what that meant, if it meant anything.

And then he became aware of the movement at his legs. Heard the soft panting. 

"Hey," he croaked, pushing up to sit. "I got you."

"It's OK," Richie whispered, curling in on himself.

"No," Jon insisted, suddenly pissed but not knowing why. "C'mere."

He reached for Richie's arm and tried to pull him up the bed, to a less awkward position. 

"C'mere," he repeated, and this time Richie scooted up so they were lying side by side.

Reflexively, Jon cupped his face and gave him a quick kiss. "Just let me."

Richie wouldn't look him in the eyes, but took his hand and brought it to join his own on his cock. 

"This is good," he said, breathing hard. "Just this."

Jon kind of hated himself for it, but he didn't argue. He just fell into rhythm and took over for Richie, stroking him steadily and finding those lips again -- tasting mint and some foreign flavor that must've been him.

It didn't take long for Richie to come into his hand. He used the discarded towel to wipe himself clean. And just like that it was over.

When he flopped onto his side, they were again facing each other, but Richie's eyes were closed. Jon watched his face, trying and failing to get a read.

"Why didn't you let me?" he finally asked.

He knew he sounded pathetic, but he tried not to care about the discomfort. It was more important, right now, that he knew what Richie was thinking.

Richie blinked his eyes open. "This was good."

Jon didn't buy it. "Don't you want me to?"

Richie looked down, toward his lips. "Yeah, I do. I … I wanna do everything."

Jon felt his heart leap into his throat. He didn't know what he'd expected to hear, but it wasn't that.

"You," he said haltingly. "You do?"

Richie nodded almost imperceptibly. "But you don't. I can tell."

Jon's gut twisted again. It was amazing, he realized, what words could make you feel.

"That's not …" He wanted to say "true," but he wasn't sure what the truth was.

"It's OK," Richie cut him off, rolling onto his back.

"No," Jon said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "I'm just … not sure."

"Yeah." Richie glanced at him and forced a smile. "It's cool. I mean … We can just do what you like. Or not do anything. Or …"

He bit his lip and looked toward the window, where the shade was lifted just a bit. "Sorry. I don't know what I'm saying."

Jon just stared, at a complete loss for words. His instincts were telling him to get out of there before he said something stupid. So he listened.

"Um. I think we should go downstairs. It's getting late."

Richie nodded, still looking out the window. "Yeah. In a minute."

Jon slowly sat up. "I'm gonna head down, OK?"

"OK."

Without another word, he quickly dressed and made his way downstairs. All the way to the basement, where it felt a little safer.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie did a little double-take, and it was so cartoonish Jon would've laughed if he weren't paralyzed by what he'd just declared.

Jon supposed it was karma or some shit. This time, he was the one who couldn't remember the chick's name. And he really hoped she was dead to the world and wouldn't notice when he finally summoned the energy to drag himself out of bed.

He already had an excuse ready if necessary, and it wasn't even a lie. He and Richie needed to work today, especially since yesterday had been shot to hell. The vibe between them had been too weird and they'd given up before Jon could even score dinner.

_Today should be better._

He had no previous experience in awkward conversations about the kinds of sex he was willing to have with his male best friend. So he wasn't sure how long it would take for them to get over it. 

But he figured a day should do it. 

Of course, he and Richie had both sought help in the "getting over" process. At the club last night, they'd steadfastly avoided each other and focused on chasing tail. Or, at least, they'd avoided _talking_ to each other. Jon might've scanned the crowd a few times, looking for a bird's nest of brown hair.

There'd been no shortage of those, but none towered as high as Richie's. When he was on the make, he fanned that fucker like a peacock tail.

So every now and then, they'd locked eyes across the bar. But that was all. Once Jon met what's-her-name, her cleavage had commanded his full attention for the rest of the night. Mostly.

He could remember some moments where he'd lost a sightline on Richie and been distracted. He could remember that particular moment when he'd realized Richie must've left. And yeah, he'd spent a little time -- just a few minutes -- wondering where he'd gone and whether he was alone.

Other than that, he'd ignored Richie entirely.

Jon rolled onto his side and studied Sleeping Beauty. The curve of her shoulder and sharp angle of her shoulder blade were displayed above the blanket, and her dark-brown hair was spread out across the white pillowcase. 

It hadn't been perfect or anything. They'd both reeked of cigarettes and cheap beer, and Jon could admit he'd been lazy about the foreplay. But she was soft and supple, and she'd moaned and gasped prettily. And underneath the smoke and alcohol, her skin held hints of vanilla and maybe flowers or something.

Most importantly, he'd felt normal. Moving so easily within that familiar, receptive silkiness, he'd remembered what it was supposed to be like. _This_ was sex … even if it wasn't exactly connection. 

If he had no impulse to reach out and touch her now, he shrugged it off. The past couple nights had exhausted him, and he was wary of sending her any signals this was going somewhere. She was hot but not really his type, from what he'd discerned through their drunken veils. She'd seemed cool and confident, which was appealing, but also kind of stiff and self-serious -- which was not.

In the end, her tits had won him over. And now that wasn't really enough.

He slipped out of bed and collected his clothes as covertly as his unsteady limbs allowed. The apartment was so tiny her bedroom and living room were one, so he staggered to the bathroom to dress in relative silence. He spared a moment there to blink at his reflection in the mirror, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin.

He supposed he should look like shit, since that's how he felt.

As he crept out of the bathroom and towards freedom, he realized he wasn't even sure where he was. He thought he remembered her saying Brooklyn, but after a certain point in the night he'd stopped listening.

_Doesn't matter._

He'd find his way out. And he had no need to come back.

*****

Jon had pointedly arrived at almost two o'clock -- a good twenty minutes later than his norm. He wasn't certain what message he was trying to send. He'd just felt like he should be late.

Richie had answered the door after the first knock -- fully dressed, hair damp and deflated. He'd greeted Jon with a "Hey, man," and they'd headed to the basement while Richie bitched about his car's worn-out brake pads.

Things were normal -- their old-normal, in fact. Except that it was painfully stilted.

Jon flopped onto the plaid armchair and eyed Richie as he tuned his guitar. "So where'd you go last night?"

He was pretty sure he sounded only mildly interested, and mentally congratulated himself for it.

Richie was too immersed in his task to look up. "Oh, uh … I just left with a girl."

Jon nodded, ignoring the twinge in his chest. "Yeah, me, too."

Richie raised his eyebrows slightly, but otherwise showed no reaction. So Jon pressed on.

"And it was hell gettin' home this morning. Subway to the train to the bus."

Richie winced in sympathy. "That's the worst, man."

"Yeah. Did it go better for you?"

Jon had to wonder if his prying was obvious. But his need to know was stronger than his desire to maintain a cool exterior.

Richie shrugged a shoulder. "I guess. _I_ had my car at least."

They fell into silence and for a while Jon watched Richie's hands doing their thing -- so ordinary and everyday. Until there was a point he couldn't stand it.

"Hey, Rich."

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry."

Richie lifted his head, and Jon forced himself to hold eye contact. "Just, y'know -- for how I've been."

He hoped Richie would understand, because he didn't think he could be any more articulate. He'd just spent the night with a hot girl, and he'd felt normal and right and shame-free. And now, bizarrely empty.

"Oh," Richie said, clearly taken off-guard. "Well … I mean, I get it."

Jon shook his head. "No. I've just been letting you take care of me, and not …" He couldn't even find the words for what he was failing to do.

Richie looked down at his guitar. "You tried yesterday. It was me."

"I didn't really try, though."

Jon wasn't sure where all the truth-telling was coming from, but apparently a dam somewhere had broken.

Richie's face started coloring and he shifted in his seat. "It's fine."

Jon leaned forward. "But it's not."

Richie sighed heavily and looked past him, toward that couch in the corner. "I told you. If you don't want to anymore, just say so."

Jon felt his stomach twist. He was obviously not sending the right signals. "No," he began, then had to swallow against the dryness in his throat. "I _do_ want to."

Richie did a little double-take, and it was so cartoonish Jon would've laughed if he weren't paralyzed by what he'd just declared. He would've laughed if the expression on Richie's face -- some mishmash of surprise and hope -- weren't digging into his chest.

"Oh. OK," Richie said hesitantly. "But … what do you want, exactly?"

_Shit._

Jon blew a few unruly strands of hair from his eyes, as a delay tactic. "Um. You need, like, a list?"

Mercifully, Richie ducked his head and chuckled, and Jon let himself smile -- feeling a weight lifted by that dorky laugh.

When Richie looked up, his cheeks were slightly flushed. "Not a list, no. I'm not sure what I mean."

Jon nodded. "S'alright."

Richie sighed again. "Anyway, thanks for saying you're sorry. That's a big fucking deal for you."

"Hey," Jon objected. "I say it all the time."

Richie gave him an obliging smile. "If you say so."

Jon rolled his eyes, unwilling to get sidetracked into a silly argument -- one of Richie's standard maneuvers for ending serious conversations.

"I just …" He pulled at some loose strings on the chair fabric. "I can't say I want _everything,_ y'know? That's a lot."

Richie's smile faded, but he didn't look unhappy. "Yeah. OK."

It took a few seconds for Jon to realize something ridiculous. He'd had no desire to touch that hot, naked piece lying beside him in bed that morning. But now all he wanted was to stalk across a dingy basement and grab a _guy_ who was too loud, and too lazy, and not pretty -- and not anything he should want.

He had to wonder when, exactly, he'd lost his mind.

"Hey." Richie's voice reeled him back in. "You OK?"

"Yeah," Jon said, because it was mostly true.

Richie studied him, looking a little wary, before going on.

"Can I tell you something?" He averted his eyes toward the couch again. "I didn't leave with anyone. I left 'cause you were with that girl."

Jon stared for a moment, and as the words sunk in he felt a tingling in his belly. He really did like that jealous streak.

Richie glanced at him. "And I was wondering … Were you mad yesterday? About Jennifer, I mean."

Just like that, Jon's self-satisfaction evaporated. "Mad?" he scoffed automatically. "No."

He knew he sounded overly defensive -- probably because he was lying through his teeth. But he didn't have the right to be mad about a girl, and admitting it would make him a tool.

Richie shrugged. "You just seemed like you were in a mood."

Jon twirled one of the fabric strings around his index finger. "Yeah, well, it wasn't because of your little girlfriend."

Richie eyed him for a beat. "If you say so."

Jon huffed in annoyance. "Stop saying that, you bitch."

But Richie was smiling smugly now, and Jon realized he was cutting off the blood supply to his own fucking index finger.

"Fine," he admitted, unraveling the string. "Maybe I didn't like her."

Richie's smile softened into something more genuine. "Well, I didn't like her that much, either. I mean, she was hot, but …"

"Yeah," Jon agreed, because he was pretty sure he understood the unspoken part.

Richie ran a hand through his still-damp hair, fluffing it up, before looking at him from under his lashes. Jon recognized it as one of his _Look at me, aren't I cute?_ ploys. Whether it was entirely deliberate he didn't know. Those particular gestures were much subtler than the horny-peacock displays, but they were part of Richie's elaborate mating rituals.

Jon had an urge to call it out, but he held back -- mainly because he was afraid of letting Richie know he observed him that closely.

"So, uh, you ready?" Richie asked.

Jon realized his facial response must've told a story, because Richie got that little sparkle in his eyes. "For this," he clarified, nodding at his guitar.

"Oh, _that,_ " Jon said, injecting an extra dose of sarcasm. "Yeah, let's do the music thing."

He pushed to his feet, feeling relieved -- not only because the thorny conversation was over. He was anxious to get to work, too.

He'd come up with a kernel of a song idea during his odyssey home that morning. The weariness in his bones and the whirling in his mind had reminded him of being on the road -- or, really, the things he hated about being on the road.

It wasn't the most fun inspiration for a song, but he thought he had a way to convey the feeling without it coming off as a big bitch-fest. He just had to convince Richie it wasn't too off-the-rails for them.

As he strolled over to grab his guitar, he broke out his tried-and-true seductive smile. "So I have an idea I think you're gonna love. It involves cowboys."

*****

"What do you want?"

Richie looked off to the side, toward the slant of light coming through beneath the window shade. He pressed his lips together then met Jon's eyes.

"Just kiss me."

Jon hesitated for an instant, brushing the backs of his fingers along Richie's cheekbone. He wasn't sure why -- but maybe it had to do with the faint uncertainty he was seeing. This time it had been Jon's idea to come upstairs, and neither one of them seemed to fully trust it.

So he did the only thing he could. He leaned down for a soft kiss, gently tugging on Richie's lower lip, waiting for him to give a signal. 

The wait was short, because Richie was Richie. His lips instantly parted in invitation, and he brought a hand to the nape of Jon's neck, fingers tracing lazy circles.

As they gradually melted into each other, Jon noticed the taste was better than what's-her-name's -- and not solely from the lack of stale alcohol. He knew this taste now. It was familiar enough to be comforting, yet still so wrong and forbidden it sent a shiver down his spine.

Wanting more warmth, he worked his palms underneath Richie's shoulder blades and brought their bodies one step closer to melding. His heart was already thumping wildly, and he was half-afraid Richie would feel it. But he willed himself not to care. That was simply what your heart did when your body had needs. 

And god, his body had needs -- just like every time before. But this time, Jon swore he wouldn't judge them. Instead, he deliberately circled his hips, almost instantly feeling Richie react to him through their layers of denim. And it sent a charge from the base of his spine into his chest, making the air in his lungs hotter, denser.

Richie moaned quietly into the kiss then pulled away, dragging his lips along Jon's jawline. 

"Jonny?" he breathed before burrowing into the curve of his neck. "You sure?"

Jon sighed and reluctantly raised his head, just enough to look Richie dead in the eyes.

"I'm not one of your girls."

Richie blinked. "Yeah. I've noticed that when your dick is in my mouth."

Jon set his jaw. "I _mean_ I don't need you to coddle me. Or take care of me."

He wasn't sure if he was talking more to Richie or himself. His faltering of the past few weeks had him feeling inadequate, and he just needed to say those words out loud.

But instead of agreeing, Richie had to be Richie. He brought his fingertips to Jon's cheek, same as the other day. "There's nothin' wrong with someone taking care of you."

Jon was silent for a moment, scanning Richie's face, reassuring himself the words were honest. He leaned in, touching his lips to Richie's ear.

"Then let me."

Richie's breath caught and Jon smiled a little before moving to the tender spot just behind his jaw. He'd barely tasted the skin there when he felt his t-shirt being tugged up.

"Eager?" he murmured as he nipped along the side of Richie's neck. He refused to lift up to accommodate any disrobing, though, and soon felt fingertips pressing into the skin of his low back.

"Jonny." It wasn't exactly a whine, but the clear desire in Richie's voice made Jon instinctively rock his hips again.

This time Richie did whimper, fingers digging in even deeper. And as much as Jon wanted to just grind away and get himself off at the earliest convenience, there were things he wanted even more.

He slowly drew his lips across the base of Richie's throat, to where his collarbone was exposed above his t-shirt. His skin tasted mostly of soap, but there was something else, too. Nothing obvious, like the vanilla and flowers of last night. Something interesting. The more Jon darted his tongue out to lap at it, the more he liked it -- the more he felt an internal heat replacing the shivers and doubts at the surface.

He slinked his way to Richie's other ear, hovering to lave at the shell and let his breath envelope it.

"I wanna suck you off."

Richie cursed under his breath, tilting his head away, and Jon wasn't sure if that was good or bad. So he slipped a hand under Richie's shirt and stroked the warm, soft skin of his belly.

"Don't stop me this time, OK?" he whispered.

Richie just groaned, grabbing a handful of his t-shirt. And Jon gave in, because the air in that drafty room had markedly changed and his body couldn't take the layers anymore.

Clumsily, they got Richie's shirt off, too, and Jon tossed it onto the floor before taking up where he'd left off. Except now there was a whole new expanse of skin under his hands. And a whole new step he wasn't entirely sure about. But he was tired of not taking it.

As he moved down Richie's body, there was no denying that the flat chest and smatterings of hair were still a little weird. Because Jesus, he loved tits.

But there were the intriguing things, too -- like the way Richie moaned when Jon sucked at his nipple and took the nub gently between his teeth. It was full and baritone and seemingly free of self-consciousness. Or the way he was unafraid to grab Jon's hair and hold him in place, leaving no question about what he wanted.

Then there were the things underneath. When Jon's thoughts got quiet, he could sense that the hand holding him was trembling, just a little. As he moved his tongue down to Richie's navel, he could feel goose bumps rising even though the skin was scorching.

He could feel, without words, that even though Richie's body wanted him, the implications of that mattered enough to scare him. Jon paused, suddenly short of breath, then crawled back up, landing random kisses along the way.

He pecked Richie on the lips before pulling back a bit.

"You're nervous again."

Richie closed his eyes and sighed, and Jon had to smile at the undisguised annoyance. With no forethought, he swept some hair from Richie's forehead then dipped down to kiss an eyelid.

Richie immediately opened his eyes, probably surprised by the strange contact. 

"You're nervous," Jon repeated, mildly. "Mr. I Want _Everything._ " 

He wasn't trying to mock, and he trusted that would be understood. 

Richie glanced toward the fading light and licked his bottom lip. "Well," he said gruffly. "You can want something but still be scared shitless."

Jon felt a little stab in his chest. They rarely admitted weaknesses to each other, so the fact that Richie said it so bluntly … 

Jon cupped his face with both hands and brought their lips together in another chaste kiss. "I know."

And then he moved on, because it was time to get over abstract fears -- even for a short while.

If his hands were shaking as he pulled Richie's remaining clothes down over his hips, he told himself that was only natural and it would pass. If he weren't nervous, that would mean he didn't care. And he cared, a lot.

He could even admit, in his head, that he was afraid of some heavy shit -- being something other than straight, destroying his closest friendship, wrecking their band. But somehow the thing that scared him most, for now, was disappointing Richie.

So he started with what he liked, peppering those inner thighs with teasing kisses -- and, as he felt bold enough, nuzzling the nest of hair there.

When he reminded himself to actually breathe normally, he was surprised to find that the scents surrounding him were … fine. Musky, not unlike a girl, and with a hint of the soap that permeated the rest of Richie's skin.

_OK._

He was so into the discovery process, he barely noticed the way Richie was restlessly twisting his hips -- until a voice, edged with desperation, pulled him from his scientific observations.

"Jonny. _Please._ "

Jon groaned a little as he felt a downward surge of blood. Begging had always been a turn-on, and apparently this situation was no different. 

He reached for the base of Richie's cock, vision swimming a little as he moved in closer than he ever had before. He exhaled hotly before touching his lips to the underneath side, taking a sample with the tip of his tongue. Richie grunted, bucking his hips, and Jon knew his hesitancy had to be torture by now. 

So he closed his eyes and licked a long, broad stroke all the way up, flicking his tongue at the underside of the head.

"Christ," Richie gasped, jerking his hips again.

Jon smiled a little. Logically, he knew some things were universal, but hearing and feeling Richie respond was a different thing altogether.

"Easy there," he murmured, his confidence bolstered.

That won a strained little laugh. "Sure. No problem."

Jon used his free hand to caress one of Richie's thighs, surreptitiously trying to soothe even as he was verbally being an ass. "You're kinda jumpy, baby. You gonna choke me if I do this?"

"I'll choke you if you don't -- _Ahh._ Fuck."

If this were their usual gamesmanship, Jon might have declared victory. But right now he had his mouth wrapped around his best friend's cock, and there wasn't room for anything but that sheer reality.

He breathed hard through his nose, taking in what he could … listening to Richie pant as he ran the tip along the roof of his mouth and massaged with his tongue … trusting in his experience on the receiving end, and basic human instincts.

There were still hazy signals from his thinking mind getting through. That this was debauched and flew in the face of everything he thought he believed. That it was so shameful they had to hurry before someone came home.

But, maybe for the first time since the insanity began, Jon didn't actually _feel_ the shame. Because he was tasting this new flavor, and it wasn't the vile experience he'd feared. It was a little bitter, but salty-sweet in places -- things he'd experienced many times, just never in this way.

More than that, though, his own sensory experience was quickly fading into the background. Richie was becoming his sounding board, just like in so many other things.

Jon tuned in as his little gasps and grunts evolved into unrestrained moans -- as his breathing grew more and more turbulent. He could feel, deep in his own body, the reverb of the pleasure he was giving.

And it occurred to him that couldn't really be wrong.

He reached down to lightly stroke Richie's balls, drawing a low groan that rumbled through him and into his cock. It spurred him to go at it a little harder, working his mouth though his jaw was starting to ache.

Richie made some kind of sound, like a choking sob, and then he was dragging his heels along the mattress like he was scrambling for a foothold. Jon suspected he knew exactly what he was going through.

That feeling of knowing you're falling apart, and wanting to, but still resisting for some reason.

All of a sudden Jon's awareness of his own body came roaring back. He was far too hot, the beads of sweat trickling down his back were far too annoying … and the strain of his erection pressing against denim was unbearable.

He pulled off, probably a little quicker than he should have, and noticed that the room was now dark. "Rich," he croaked, voice shot.

Richie lifted slightly to look down at him. "Get up here."

Jon wasted no time, gracelessly working his jeans off, feeling like his lungs might explode in the process. He'd barely managed to straddle Richie's hips when two hands clamped onto his ass.

"Fuck," he hissed as Richie arched into him.

But even as he succumbed to pure, animal feeling, Jon had the presence of mind to notice how easily they dropped into tandem rhythm now. Just like music. They were lucky that way, he supposed.

He weaved his fingers into Richie's hair, tilting his head to lick along the cord of his neck. He felt Richie's breath quickening as he used his teeth to tug on an earlobe.

"What soap do you use? I wanna butter my fucking toast with it."

Richie exhaled a surprised laugh. "That … Irish shit, I think." He paused to take a gulp of air. "Probably whiskey in it."

Jon smiled against the skin under his lips. "That explains everything."

Gradually they rolled onto their sides and switched places. As Jon let his body get heavy, relaxing into the mattress, he had a flash of guilt. Then he remembered … There was nothing wrong with taking care of each other.

He closed his eyes and splayed his palms over Richie's ass, savoring the heat flowing to the pit of his belly, the weight pressing him into the bed. He knew he was close, and Richie had to be on the verge, so there was no time to spare for guilt anyway.

Then that hot mouth latched onto the side of his neck, and Jon was pinned to spot by a rippling pleasure moving outward from the depths of his pelvis. Maybe, in that moment, he was finally drained of all sense, because he found himself circling two fingers around Richie's tailbone. 

"Everything, huh?" he whispered, with as much composure as he could muster.

He slid his fingers farther down, teasing the crevice, then kissed Richie's shoulder. "So you wanna do everything to me?"

Richie lolled his head on the pillow beside Jon's. "God, yes," he gasped, still grinding away.

Jon felt his balls tightening but fought to hold on as he dipped his fingers a little lower.

"And can you take it? _Everything?_ "

He felt Richie's body go rigid under his hands as he groaned wantonly into the pillow. A moment later, Jon felt a warmth spread over his stomach, and that was all it took to send him over the edge, too.

As they lay there, finding their breath, Jon drifted his palms up and down Richie's back, sensing how his body was quaking but solid. He landed another kiss on his shoulder.

"Good answer."

There was a beat of silence, and then Richie was laughing, the rhythm of his movement streaming into Jon's body. Impulsively, Jon gave him a squeeze then softened his hold so Richie could roll off of him. When he did, his face was illuminated by the streetlight coming through the window, and Jon could see that familiar dopey grin.

"So." Richie blinked a couple times at the ceiling. "This has been a productive day."

Jon rolled his eyes but couldn't help laughing. He figured it must be post-orgasm hormones.

"Go get a towel," he ordered, shoving lightly at Richie's arm.

Richie yawned dramatically. 

"Go." Jon shoved a little harder. "I've got you all over me."

Richie propped himself on his forearm and looked down at Jon with a smirk. "Please. You wanna spread me on your toast."

Jon scowled so he wouldn't smile. "Fuck off. No, wait -- Get me a towel, then fuck off."

Richie laughed again -- that little hissy one that made him sound like a cartoon dog. But this time he gave in, slowly turning over and pushing to his feet. He turned on the lamp on his dresser before going into the hall, leaving Jon to lie on his back and adjust his eyes to the new light.

He flinched a few moments later when a damp towel landed on his chest.

"You're welcome," Richie said, as bitchy as possible.

Jon sat up to clean himself off while Richie did the same. When he looked up again, Richie was leaning against his dresser, gazing at him with a soft smile -- like it was the most normal thing in the world to be standing there stark-naked. And Jon felt suddenly self-conscious under the scrutiny.

"What are you staring at?"

Richie crossed his arms and shrugged a shoulder. "Guess I like looking at you."

Jon felt the color rise in his cheeks instantly. And the irony was not lost on him -- that this could make him uncomfortable after what he'd just done, and what he'd just said. The simple truth was, feelings and words were more straightforward on the brink of an orgasm.

Regular life was different.

He looked down at their pile of clothes. "Better get dressed. Your parents will be home soon."

Richie was quiet for a moment as Jon started to dress. Then he opened a drawer and Jon glanced up to see him grabbing sweats and a t-shirt.

"Your mom would definitely wanna know why we're upstairs," he said, forcing a laugh. "What would we tell her?"

Richie turned toward him as he pulled the drawstrings on his sweats. "We were playin' with my Hot Wheels?" he offered, smiling faintly.

Jon returned the smile the best he could. "It wouldn't even be a lie."

Richie shook his head. "Nope." He pulled the shirt on -- one of his Hendrix favorites. "Let's go downstairs."

Jon tossed his own shirt on then quickly crossed the room, catching Richie's forearm just before he stepped out the door. 

"Hey."

Richie turned partway, and Jon brought his hands to his cheeks. "Before your parents get home." 

He kissed him on the lips, light and quick, then pulled back. Richie smiled, though he looked uncertain, and Jon reached down to squeeze his hand.

He wasn't sure what he was trying to telegraph.

_Be patient with me?_

_I'm scared shitless, too?_

_I wish I could stay in this fucking room with you?_

Probably all of it, and more. But unless he was writing a song, he wasn't very good with words. So he hoped for now, this was enough.

Richie didn't say anything, but even in the dim light Jon could see the flicker of understanding in his eyes. Then he turned and they walked downstairs together.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about that first time was, it had been a shock, but not entirely.

When Jon tried to remember how it all began, the details were fuzzy. They'd been drunk, of course, having decided to end a long afternoon of lyric-tweaking with a bottle of vodka. But not so drunk that it was an excuse -- either for it happening, or for his faulty memory.

He rolled over and looked at the clock on his nightstand. Almost 3 a.m. It was obviously one of those nights. One of those increasingly common nights where his mind played out scenarios or entire fucking movie scripts, and he just lay there watching.

Tonight, apparently, he was stuck on that first night on the couch.

He could clearly see pieces as they unfolded … the way they'd sat slumped, legs lazily splayed, bumping their knees together … how Richie had eventually shifted, sitting up and resting his forearm on the back of the couch … that unreadable little smile that had captured Jon's full attention … the warmth of Richie's palm on his cheek … how he'd known what was coming next but done nothing to stop it.

Things got cloudy, though, when he tried to remember how he ended up on his back, jeans around his ankles, with Richie's mouth on him. Maybe because of the shock. He was sure his mind shut down when he realized Richie actually wanted to do such a thing, and that he was able to … more or less.

That first time was a bit clumsy, so he wasn't sure if Richie had ever sucked a guy off before. On the other hand, he'd gone at it with such gusto, it was hard to believe he'd never done it.

Jon had no plans to ask, because if he wasn't the first he didn't want to know. He could admit it was partly because he liked feeling special. The other reason was tougher to own -- that the idea of Richie with another guy made his blood boil.

_Christ._

The thing about that first time was, it had been a shock, but not entirely. Yeah, he'd been momentarily stunned when Richie leaned in for a hesitant kiss, thumb stroking over his cheek.

But he couldn't say he was shocked Richie felt that way about him. _That_ had been a possibility in his head from day one. 

The first time they'd ever spoken, Richie had looked at him with a shimmer in his eyes that made Jon a little twitchy. He'd told himself he was just misreading excitement as something else. But he'd never fully believed it. Guys didn't look at other guys that way -- not in his experience anyway.

That was the main reason he'd brushed Richie off at first.

He'd changed his mind, of course. And in moments of clarity, he saw that over the past couple years, he'd not only grown to accept the way Richie looked at him, he actually sought it out. On stage, in rehearsal, hanging in some dive bar -- He'd find a way to get into Richie's personal space, make him smile and shamelessly bathe in the warmth of that gaze.

There were times when he'd question why he did it. Guys didn't do _that_ to other guys, either. But he'd never cared to delve deep enough to confront the answer -- even in the past few months, as they'd gotten closer than ever.

Even when he decided to push Dave out, and make it just him and Richie writing the new album. He'd believed what he told the other guys -- that it would just work better. Too many cooks in the kitchen and shit like that.

And it was true. From the start, he and Richie had just jelled.

But, as he lay there wide awake in the pitch-dark, it felt safe to acknowledge the full truth. On some level of consciousness, he'd wanted to be alone with Richie. There was no way, in a thousand lifetimes, he would've made that first move. But he'd set the stage for it to happen.

So … not a shock, really. That was him. He made things happen.

*****

In retrospect, it was a bang-up bit of acting. The way he'd smiled and said "Hey" so casually when Jennifer answered the front door. Again.

The way he'd chatted with her, returning her flirtatious smiles, while they waited for Richie to amble downstairs. Again. The way he'd waved as she left, with a "See ya" -- like he was looking forward to their future encounters.

The way he hadn't scratched her eyes out.

All in all, Jon couldn't help but be impressed with himself. Maybe if this next album tanked, he'd consider an acting career. People were always telling him he looked like a fucking model …

"What's goin' through your mind, man?"

Jon glanced up to see Richie regarding him from the other end of the couch. They'd taken a break, kicking back with a couple beers, and he'd immediately gone into brooding mode. He knew his semi-fugue states drove Richie nuts. Unless he was stoned, the guy could never just sit -- forever shifting and fidgeting.

Like now. He was sitting cross-legged, bouncing a knee as he looked over expectantly. 

"Nothing," Jon lied.

Richie furrowed his brow. "You're holding that thing like you're gonna crush it."

Jon shrugged then took a swig from his bottle.

Richie tipped his chin down and looked at Jon from under his fringe of hair -- another one of his trusty moves. He thought it made him look alluring or something.

"You're definitely tense," he observed with a coy smile. "Maybe I can help?"

Jon took another pull from his beer, eyeing Richie the whole time. He shrugged again.

"Sure."

Richie broke into a full-on grin, that glimmer lighting his eyes. And despite his determined nonchalance, Jon felt his stomach do a slow somersault.

They both set their beers on the floor and then Jon stretched out, interlacing his hands behind his head on the arm of the couch, like he was relaxing on the beach.

Richie snorted as he clambered over. "Ready to be serviced, I see."

"Yep."

Richie paused, awkwardly hovering over him, and narrowed his eyes. "You're in one of _those_ moods."

"Yep," Jon affirmed, freeing his hands and pulling Richie down on top of him.

It wasn't anywhere near comfortable. They each had a leg hanging off the couch and Richie's knee came dangerously close to his groin a couple times. But Jon refused to budge or let Richie adjust to a more secure position.

He kept one hand firmly on the back of Richie's head, fingers curling into his hair, and his other arm wrapped around his upper back. Richie seemed to want everything at once -- hands randomly groping for whatever they could reach, hips already restlessly rocking up and down.

Jon smiled a little into the kiss before breaking it, trailing his lips along Richie's jawline.

"Did you do it on purpose?"

Richie's hands stilled. "What?"

"Her." Jon nuzzled his neck. "I told you I didn't like her." He landed a quick kiss. "And you said you didn't, either."

"Yeah, but …"

Jon kept brushing his lips over that sensitive spot on Richie's neck. "Why her?"

"Um."

He knew Richie was struggling for a lie. Even in the short time they'd been doing this, he'd learned that when the little bastard was aroused his bullshit neurons stopped firing.

He caught Richie's earlobe between his lips and gently tugged. "Were you trying to make me jealous?"

Richie urgently pressed his hips down. "Ugh. Jonny."

That was all the answer he needed. 

"Why?"

"Don't know."

" _Why?_ "

Richie rolled his hips impatiently. "Just told you."

And then those lips were devouring the side of his neck, and Jon squeezed his fist around the locks of hair still in his hand. He was caught up somewhere between irritation and lust, and wasn't sure which to act on. 

He felt the relief of cooler air as Richie lifted up a bit.

"You still want it?"

Jon blinked, taking in those dark eyes -- the playful sparkle replaced by stark hunger.

_Hell yeah._

He'd gotten maybe three hours of sleep and he'd woken up wanting it, for fuck's sake. But there was no way he'd admit it.

So he kept it simple. "Yeah."

Suddenly it was like they were back to where they started … in their shadowy corner, on some discarded couch, dispensing with words. Except this time, there was no shock. Jon had opened his eyes that morning wanting it -- and knowing he could get it.

It was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

He kept his hands moving in and out of Richie's hair as that mouth slid down his body, barely resisting the urge to steer the chain of events. Even though he knew exactly what he wanted, the random, unexpected nips were sending the most delicious sparks across his skin. 

When Richie finally worked his pants down and he felt that torturous skimming along his inner thighs, Jon sank a little lower into the couch. It was pointless to be anything but direct. Richie must've gotten the message, because he skipped any further pre-show and closed his mouth around him.

Jon groaned recklessly as he pressed his head back into the cushions. There was no one home, and for once he had no reservations about moving into the sensations. 

He gasped as Richie's tongue swiped that sweet spot at his head, shamelessly climbing his calves onto his shoulders. Richie moaned around him and then there were two fingertips skating along the vulnerable path between his balls and his entrance. And Jon's mind told him it was so, so wrong -- even as his body paid no attention, arching into the touch of its own accord.

He shut his eyes, feeling around for something to hold onto. But there was only the bare cushion underneath him. So he found a handful of Richie's hair again. He'd been doing that a lot lately, but Richie never seemed to mind.

He never seemed to mind anything -- least of all taking Jon into him, in almost every way possible. When Jon came minutes later, it was into that now familiar, raw acceptance. 

As he lay there, heavy in his bones but trembling, Richie slowly shifted -- bringing his head to rest on Jon's chest, but keeping some weight in his limbs so he wasn't too much of a burden.

Still, Jon could feel his hardness against his leg, and he was about to offer a return gesture when Richie spoke up.

"It wasn't some big plan or anything."

Jon stayed silent, unsure where this was going. 

"She called me," Richie said. "And I thought, 'What the hell? She's hot.'"

He paused and scooted up a little higher, nestling his head into the crook of Jon's neck. "This OK?"

"Yeah," Jon said automatically. The weight was heavier this way, but it was fine.

He felt Richie's breath tickle his skin. "And then I thought about, y'know … how you got kind of jealous over her."

Jon clenched his jaw. "And that was stupid. We can't get mad over girls."

He said it like it was an obvious rule. Because it seemed like it should be. They loved girls, they needed them. They had no right to get mad at each other for it.

"I know," Richie mumbled.

"And anyway," Jon pressed, "why do you wanna make me jealous? It's not like …"

He trailed off because he had no idea where the thought was going. He just knew what they were doing wasn't normal, and there was no room for silly couple-y games.

Richie didn't answer, and Jon was set to tell him he was getting too heavy -- that he needed to move. But he couldn't. So he asked again.

"Why?"

Richie squirmed. "Well. I guess …" He sighed in resignation. "I just wanna feel like … like you want me as much as I want you."

Jon felt as if the air was being pushed out of his lungs. They didn't say things like that to each other. They didn't have those kinds of expectations of each other.

More than that, he couldn't believe Richie didn't realize …

Jon swallowed hard. "Why do you think …?"

He stopped abruptly, deciding he didn't need to know right now. He brought a palm between Richie's shoulder blades, to the back of his heart, and pressed down.

"I do." He massaged a small circle with his hand. "I do."

Richie's face was still hidden in the cushion beside him, and Jon was grateful. Just like that first time, this was a shock, yet it wasn't. He'd known something like this was coming -- uncomfortably honest words, actually said out loud -- and that Richie would be the first to say them. 

He'd been waiting for it.

They stayed like that for maybe a couple minutes, until Jon heard the front door opening, then floorboards creaking. 

He pressed his palm down. "You believe me?"

Richie shifted a little but kept his head buried. "Yeah."

Jon closed his eyes and listened to the footsteps above them. "Good."


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I lie there and wonder how many girls I'm missing out on when I'm with you. I wonder if God's gonna make my dick fall off to punish me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my personal favorite :)

Jon blinked at his clock. Somehow it was 11 a.m. He'd been awake for a while -- at least an hour -- but his limbs hadn't expressed any interest in moving. The room was darker than it should be, and his brain felt heavy in his head, so he supposed his body was just reacting with inertia.

Or he was stalling. It was just an ordinary day, but somehow felt like it wasn't. He knew, of course, it was because of what he and Richie had said on that couch last night. The problem was, he wasn't completely sure what their words meant.

He supposed he was free to interpret "want" any way he liked. He could assume Richie was talking about a purely physical need … that he wanted Jon to shove him onto the couch and put his mouth on him and _show_ him something more.

Jon felt a stirring below. _I can totally do that._

Now that he'd done it once, gotten a feel for the mechanics, he was way less squeamish about it. He'd always been a quick learner. And when he didn't like something, he pushed it aside decisively. But he liked touching Richie that way -- liked it so much his skin was tingling just thinking about it.

He rolled onto his back. _Christ._

It would be easy if that was all Richie needed. But there was a distinct possibility he was asking for more. And Jon had essentially said "yes," without even knowing what, exactly, he was getting into -- just because it was Richie.

And what the hell did that mean about him?

"Guess I'm gay now," he murmured to the ceiling.

Hearing the words out loud, he had to laugh -- because there was no fucking way. He loved everything about women -- or a lot of things about them. He was no less attracted to them now than he'd ever been. He just had this other feeling, too.

Jon flipped onto his side again, toward the muted light filtering through his curtains. 

It occurred to him, again, how Richie's words had been a surprise, but not really. In the past few days, he'd been giving off a sort of restlessness. And when Jon stopped long enough to pay attention -- usually when he got in bed at night -- he felt it in himself, too.

Maybe because things would be changing soon. They had a real-deal professional songwriter joining them in a couple days -- right there in the basement. Their A&R people claimed this guy could turn shit into gold. At first, he and Richie hadn't known how to take that. But they'd decided they could silence their egos for the chance to see this album go somewhere. 

It would be pretty sweet to make enough money to permanently move out of their parents' houses, and maybe get cars with brakes that worked every day.

But it also meant a stranger was going to crash their little world, and it wouldn't be the same. 

Jon kept looking at the light. It was so faint, he realized it must be a cloudy day. Maybe even snowing. He fucking hated snow. But there was nothing to be done about it.

_It'll be fine._

New Jersey winters always sucked, but they always ended. And then it was fine again. He was sure there was a metaphor tucked in there -- about the inevitability of change, or how the light needs the dark, or some shit. But he didn't feel like contemplating it or putting it in a song. Definitely not that.

It was a big enough deal for him to just trust it. 

_It'll be fine._

*****

Rigatoni and meat sauce. Jon would've been disappointed by the pasta repeat -- it was the second time this week -- but Mrs. Sambora had bought fresh parmesan on her way home. None of that Kraft processed shit. The woman knew what she was doing.

"Here, have some more." Mrs. Sambora slapped another pile of rigatoni onto Jon's plate. "You boys are too skinny -- especially you, Jonny."

Jon looked up and smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Sambora," he said in a sing-song voice.

He couldn't resist. He'd always impulsively tried to charm moms while simultaneously wooing their daughters. The current situation was different, he reminded himself. But he was a creature of habit.

"What's this?"

Jon glanced up to see Richie's second helping being withheld in mid-air as Mrs. Sambora was apparently distracted. She set the pot down and grabbed Richie's earring -- the one that looked like a saber tooth.

"Ow," Richie protested.

Mrs. Sambora rolled her eyes. "I'm barely touching you. What _is_ this?"

"Um, an earring? That's attached to my ear."

Jon crammed a forkful of rigatoni into his mouth then sat back to watch.

Mrs. Sambora sighed as she lifted and twisted the earring a little, like she was inspecting it for satanic markings.

"Does it have to be so _long,_ though? And white? It looks … I dunno."

"I like it," Richie said petulantly, reaching for the pot and taking the extreme measure of serving himself.

Mrs. Sambora shook her head but relinquished her hold on the disputed jewelry. She looked across the table and smiled.

"Jonny, did I ever tell you how he used to wear my earrings when he was little?"

Jon leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "No," he said with a grin.

Richie slumped in his chair. "Jesus Christ, ma."

Mrs. Sambora gave him The Eye. "Richard, your mouth."

Richie held his palms up in a placating gesture, and Mrs. Sambora shook her head again.

"Anyway." She sat down, angling herself toward Jon and leaning in conspiratorially. "When he was … not even three, I think? He was always getting into my jewelry box. He was a climber." 

She paused to look at Richie, like he was still in the dog house for it. Richie shrugged then reached for the plate of garlic bread.

"So," Mrs. Sambora continued. "I didn't keep any small jewelry there -- just the big gaudy stuff. And he _loved_ my giant dangly earrings."

Jon nodded. "Sounds like him."

In his periphery, he saw Richie's head snap up.

"They were clip-ons," Mrs. Sambora went on. "But of course he couldn't figure them out. So he'd stick them _in_ his ears. Can you imagine?"

Jon let his mouth fall open in exaggerated surprise. "No."

Mrs. Sambora dipped her chin and giggled. "And _then,_ he'd put my high heels on --"

"Ma," Richie interjected, choking a little on his bread.

Mrs. Sambora reached out and placed a hand on Richie's arm, suddenly concerned. "Honey, chew."

When it became apparent Richie's life wasn't in peril, she returned her attention to Jon. 

"OK. So he'd put my heels on and traipse around the house, with those earrings sticking straight outta his ears, flapping around."

She waved a hand in front of her face as a giggle fit took over, and Jon found himself joining in. He felt Richie's glare from across the table, but ignored it. 

"I couldn't believe how he got around in those shoes with his little feet," Mrs. Sambora marveled, like it was a true source of pride. "He was a natural."

Jon nodded firmly. "Obviously."

"OK," Richie cut in, pointing an index finger at him. "From now on, we're meeting at your house. And I'm demanding photo albums."

Jon pulled a face. "No way -- Our basement doesn't have what we need."

Richie's eyes widened, and it was only then that Jon realized what his words implied. He ducked his head and scooped up another forkful of pasta.

"Y'know, his father was a little worried for a while."

He and Richie both looked over sharply, and Mrs. Sambora stifled another giggle. "But I told him it was just because you were home with me all day. You wanted to look like me."

Richie actually seemed relieved by that tidbit, and Jon had to smile. "He still does," he intoned, looking meaningfully at mother and son's matching poufs of hair.

Mrs. Sambora snorted and swatted at him playfully. "Oh, Jonny."

This time Richie rolled his eyes. "This has been a real pleasure, but I think it's time to change the subject."

Mrs. Sambora clapped her hands together, like she didn't even hear him. "Oh, y'know what? I do have pictures, Jon."

"Oh, god," Richie whined.

Jon decided to have mercy on him. "No, Mrs. Sambora. You should eat -- before we scarf it all."

But she shook her head. "I'm waiting for his dad to get home from bowling. We always eat together."

She pushed away from the table. "I think I know which album they're in. Be right back."

As she departed on her mission, Jon looked across the table and saw that Richie was trying to scowl at him -- but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Jon smirked. "So you're the master of high heels, huh?"

" _Was._ Those days are long behind me," Richie assured before stuffing his face with rigatoni.

Jon nabbed a slice of garlic bread. "It's sweet how she waits for your dad."

Richie gave a little shrug. "They've always been like that."

Jon nodded then tore into his bread. Mrs. Sambora made it right, like his mom did -- with real garlic, olive oil and parmesan. Not fucking Parkay and garlic powder, like some of his girlfriends' moms.

"I hafta tell you," Richie said, lowering his voice. "She usually only pulls that shit when I have a girl over."

Jon stopped chewing. "So?" he said, spewing a couple crumbs.

Richie gave him that special smile, custom-designed to annoy. "Maybe she thinks something's up. Like, you're my new girlfriend."

Jon swallowed his food so he could tell Richie off safely. "Fuck off. And _you're_ the cross-dresser, not me."

Richie giggled, looking uncannily like his mom, and Jon fought to maintain his bitch-face.

He shoveled up the last of his rigatoni. "Has she shown your baby pictures to Jennifer yet?" he inquired, casual as hell.

Richie's giggles turned into a cough, and he reached for his water glass. 

"Honey, chew," Jon admonished in falsetto, before downing his pasta.

"Uh, no," Richie said once he'd taken a sip. "She hasn't even met Jennifer."

Jon chewed his food thoughtfully. "Hmm."

Richie smiled again, but this time it was that subtler, knowing variation. "She's not the kinda girl I introduce to my mom," he said softly. "You are."

Jon laughed despite himself. "Swear to god, Sambora. I'm gonna knock that dangly earring off your head."

Richie kept smiling. "Promise?"

Jon automatically darted his eyes toward the kitchen doorway, like Mrs. Sambora might spring out from a hiding place.

He looked back to Richie and smiled. "Promise."

*****

Jon tapped his pen on his notebook, keeping a rhythm while he murmured the words that had kept him stuck all afternoon. It was surprisingly tough to work in a Romeo and Juliet reference without sounding cheesy as hell.

He supposed he could just give up. But once he got an idea in his head, he usually tried to beat it into submission before letting go. Richie was always saying he was too stubborn, or that he needed to step back and see the forest or whatever. Jon disagreed, for the most part.

He was, however, ready to put this particular battle to the side, into the Desmond pile. He couldn't really concentrate on the vague fiction in his head anyway. He swung his legs off the couch and set the notebook on the floor, by his beer. 

"Hey, Rich?"

Richie looked up from across the room, still plucking his guitar strings. "Hmm?"

"What do you think your parents would do if they knew?"

Richie froze. "Knew what?" he asked, clearly playing dumb.

Jon sighed. "If they walked in here and saw us" -- He flapped a hand vaguely -- "doing things."

"I dunno," Richie said, with a dismissive shrug.

"Speculate."

Richie let his head loll in dramatic despair. "Why? Did you forget to lock the door?"

"Nooo. I'm curious. I mean, you've thought about it, right?"

Richie glanced at him then looked away. "Well … a little. I try not to think about that stuff."

"OK," Jon said, shifting in his seat. "So you must think they'd freak."

Richie rubbed the back of his neck. "No … I mean, my parents don't really freak out, y'know? What my mom did at dinner -- That's her worst."

Jon nodded. He knew Richie's parents were easy on him, maybe because he was their only kid. But this was different. This was their only son with another guy.

"OK. But they wouldn't be happy," Jon said, not as a question.

"Happy?" Richie raised his eyebrows. "Doubt it."

"But you don't really think about it." 

"Like I said, I try not to."

Jon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. "See, I can't help it. I think about that shit all the time."

Richie frowned but stayed silent, so Jon went on.

"I lie in bed and wonder what would happen if our parents found out. Or if the guys found out. I worry that I'm not focusing on the music enough 'cause this is distracting me." 

Richie opened his mouth, like he was going to interrupt, but Jon was on a roll.

"I lie there and wonder how many girls I'm missing out on when I'm with you. I wonder if God's gonna make my dick fall off to punish me."

Richie groaned. "C'mon, man. God doesn't give a shit what we do in this basement."

Jon shrugged. "Maybe not. But that's what my mind does -- unless I'm drunk or high." He wagged his index finger at Richie. "We were drunk that first time, and that's why I let it happen."

Richie pressed his lips together and his whole body seemed to tense, like he was armoring up. Jon found he couldn't really look at him, so he aimed his eyes at the floor, halfway between them.

"But we weren't drunk the other times," he said. "Or not wasted, anyway. My mind was screaming at me that it's insane, and I still fucking let it happen."

Richie huffed. "Stop saying _let._ Like you didn't do anything."

Jon blinked. He honestly hadn't realized he was saying it that way. "Sorry. You're right."

Richie nodded, a little color rising in his cheeks. "Anyway," he said slowly, "isn't that a good thing? That you didn't need to be drunk out of your mind? I mean, a normal person would think that was good."

Jon smiled ruefully. "Maybe. But … I'm just saying I think about this all the time, and what it means. And it's hard for me to just … go with it, y'know?"

Richie eyed him. "Yeah, I've noticed." He dipped his head. "But I get it. It's not easy for me, either."

Jon gaped at him. "You kidding? You started it all -- like it was nothing."

Richie kept his eyes down, tapping his fingers on his guitar. "It wasn't like that. I had to be shit-faced that first time."

Jon didn't answer. Somehow that little detail hadn't stuck with him.

"I was scared to death," Richie said, with a humorless laugh. "But, I dunno -- You get to the point where you want someone and … it hurts." He shrugged. "So you have to try."

Jon just kept staring like an idiot. He had no idea how long Richie had felt that way, because it was one of those things he'd decided not to ask. He suspected it was from the start. But he hoped not, because that was a long time to be scared.

"Um," Jon said, his throat suddenly dry. "Can you come over here? I just wanna …"

He lost his way with the words, but Richie didn't seem to need the reason. He set his guitar down and walked over, stopping a foot away from Jon and crossing his arms.

"So," he said quietly. "You think about it all the time?"

Jon swallowed. Apparently he'd admitted that.

Richie didn't wait for an answer. "Do you ever think any good thoughts?"

Jon laughed softly, taken off-guard. "Uh -- Yeah, sure." He tousled his hair, just for something to do with his hands. "Some of my thoughts are more on the bad side, though."

Richie smiled a little. "Tell me."

Jon felt a flutter in his belly, because he knew what Richie really meant. He reached out to intertwine their fingers. "I'd rather show you."

Richie looked down to where Jon was running a thumb across his knuckles. Without a word, he stepped closer and knelt down between Jon's legs, resting his hands on his thighs. 

Jon sighed, in something like relief, then cupped Richie's face, tilting it up -- savoring the small height advantage. It made him feel more normal, and he needed those little things to cling to. Because there was nothing normal about the texture of the skin under his palms, or the feeling of those lips against his, so much more substantial than a girl's.

Somewhere in his mind, Jon knew it was OK to shed the last remnants of his old "normal," but he had to do it bit by bit.

He curled his fingers in that dark hair and latched on a little tighter as he gently sucked on Richie's lower lip. He felt Richie's palms sliding up and down his thighs, just a little -- not trying to get anywhere. And he realized neither of them was in a rush.

Jon spread his fingers at the nape of Richie's neck, making slow circles and listening to the contented little sounds he drew. If he'd ever imagined what it was like to be with Richie -- and in the dark corners of his mind he had -- there hadn't been any simple moments like this.

Reality was better, it turned out.

When Jon eventually touched the tip of his tongue to Richie's, he automatically dug his fingertips in a little deeper, like he was afraid it wouldn't last. But it did. And the tug of fear faded as Richie's hands snaked around his hips to his lower back, and the shape of his body moved closer and became more solid.

Jon noticed, for the first time, that when their tongues slowly rolled, and eased back, and dipped in again, it was something like creating music. Where they listened to each other and responded, pushed a little when it was right, and backed off when it was needed. It wasn't like that with all the girls -- or even most of them, Jon thought.

But this was how it should be.

He broke the kiss and laid his forehead on Richie's, catching his breath. "Um. I wanna tell you. Just 'cause I'm hot and cold, or … whatever. It doesn't mean I don't want you."

"OK," Richie agreed, before nibbling on his upper lip.

Jon pulled back a bit, just out of reach. "I mean it. OK?"

Richie nuzzled his cheek, and Jon felt him smile. "Oh-kayyy."

"Jesus, you're a brat."

"Mmm," Richie agreed again, laying a trail of light kisses along his jaw before taking his earlobe between his teeth.

Jon hissed as the too-delicate sensation went straight to his cock. And then Richie was pushing him against the backrest and trying to unbutton his jeans, and it took all of Jon's strength not to surrender and get pulled along.

But he managed to bring his hands to Richie's shoulders. "Unh-uh. Floor."

Richie sat back, looking black-eyed and slightly dazed. "Thought we said no more floor."

"Changed my mind." Jon reached for the trusty blanket on the back of the couch and tossed it down.

"Lie down," he said, not quite looking Richie in the eyes.

Richie hesitated, like he wasn't sure _how_ to lie, and Jon felt a warmth deep in his chest -- the kind that comes from knowing the other person is flustered by you. He smiled as he slid off the couch and knelt beside Richie. 

"Just lie down." 

Richie shook his head at his own awkwardness before he stretched out, looking up with a mix of arousal and self-consciousness that made Jon's heart skip. As he straddled Richie's hips and worked open the buttons of his shirt, he tried not to hate the way his fingers visibly quaked. 

Patience was not his forte, and he'd just about had it with himself.

Luckily, Richie wasn't sick of him yet, judging from the hardness Jon felt against his ass. And that physical assurance, the way it sent a little surge up into his navel, was exactly what he needed.

He laid himself over Richie, instantly softening into their shared heat, like it was a shield. He found that familiar, vulnerable place under his jawline, suckling then exhaling hotly onto the moist skin. Richie moaned quietly and tangled his hand in Jon's hair, pulling just a little. But Jon wasn't having it -- He knew how stealthy Richie could be about turning the tables.

He grasped Richie's forearm and pinned it to the blanket by his head, using his thumb to stroke the sensitive skin of his inner wrist.

Richie swallowed a groan, and Jon remembered that his parents were right above them, in the living room -- probably watching _Hill Street Blues_ and thinking their son was writing a song about unrequited love. And some part of him -- some dark, little-acknowledged part -- felt a thrill at how debauched it all was.

Maybe he _was_ loosening up, after all.

Jon moved a little lower, to that muscle just above Richie's collarbone, and took a chance on biting down softly. Richie inhaled sharply and began scrabbling at the hem of Jon's t-shirt, so he lifted up to chuck it. As he did, he took in the view of Richie's flushed skin, and the way he was blatantly staring.

For once, Jon dove back in with no reservations.

Richie flinched a little when Jon found the pulse point on his neck. But it only took an instant for him to relax, arching shamelessly to get exactly what he wanted.

And Jon followed the signals, because that's all he could do. He mapped out a path over Richie's collarbone and down to his nipple, lapping and sucking and listening to the soft gasps he conjured with every little flick of his tongue. 

There was something to be said for the power of it, Jon thought -- the knowledge that someone wanted you that bad. He'd always gotten a jolt from it. But the fact that Richie wanted him that much, even though it could be disastrous for them both … It was hot as hell.

Jon inched down his body, nipping at the overheated skin under his lips, feeling muscles quiver at his touch. When Jon stopped to tease his navel, Richie made a sound -- something like _ungh_ \-- and his limbs suddenly became restless. Heels dragging the blanket around, palms meandering along Jon's back, hands grasping his triceps. 

"Steady there," Jon murmured, half-joking, as he lifted up and brought his hands to Richie's waistband.

To his surprise, Richie didn't say a word. He just kept his eyes on Jon's hands as they worked his jeans and boxers off. He kept staring as Jon shed his own pants -- not bothering to hide the naked need as his gaze swept along the length of Jon's body.

It wasn't until Jon crawled back up, looking to his face for the green light, that Richie spoke up.

"You really want to, right?"

Jon licked his lips. "Yeah."

He leaned in for a quick kiss before wending his way toward his goal, taking tastes along the way. They were both feverishly hot, and it amplified the flavors hitting Jon's tongue -- his own body starting to respond, even without the stimulation of touch.

Everything from there started to blur. He found himself sucking on the tender skin of Richie's inner thigh, feeling the soft rumble of his moans roll down his body. And then he was taking that hot, heavy flesh into his mouth, with a surety he didn't have the first time. It wasn't so much that he trusted any expertise he'd developed -- He just trusted Richie didn't need it to be perfect. 

And maybe, he realized, trust mattered more than skill. Because in no time, Richie's body was writhing in rhythm with his ministrations, and Jon heard himself reflexively moaning around the heat in his mouth -- pulling it into himself and letting it take him over from the inside out.

He felt emboldened to move farther -- a _need_ to -- so he reached down to gently roll Richie's balls. That pulled a sharp gasp and then a muffled-sounding groan, and Jon glanced up to see Richie using his own shirt to stifle his sounds.

Jon's gut twisted at the sight. First, because he was struck with the blunt reality that they always had to hide. And then because he realized he was turning Richie into a hot mess.

Jon's heartbeat started thudding in his ears, and he felt a wave of arousal that stole his breath.

He pulled off of Richie's cock, pausing to gulp some air before dipping down to replace his hands with his mouth. There was another cut-off moan, louder this time, and then the weight of Richie's calves wrapping around his hips. Jon groaned at the connection -- how it was dizzying and grounding at the same time. Completely foreign and utterly natural.

It seemed like all those things couldn't exist together, but somehow they did.

Somehow they were stumbling forward. Even through the rush of blood in his ears, Jon could hear the increasing desperation in Richie's muted sounds, and he dimly wondered how it should end.

Part of him hoped he'd have the guts to drink it in this time. But there was another pull he couldn't ignore. 

Jon slowly drew his mouth away, then crawled up Richie's body. All the way until he could nestle his head into the curve of Richie's neck, and fling an arm across his chest.

He closed his eyes and kissed the skin under his lips. "You have no idea how much …"

His voice was thick and hoarse, and he couldn't finish. So he tried again, threading his fingers into Richie's hair, pressing his lips to that same spot.

"You have no idea."

Richie exhaled like he'd been holding his breath, then wrapped his arms around Jon, pulling him so close it was almost overwhelming. But a moment later, he loosened his grip and began to undulate his hips, sparking an electrical pulse that flowed out into Jon's limbs.

"Fuck," he gasped before scrambling for a better position.

He lifted his hips just enough to glide his tip along that hard, slick flesh -- closing his eyes and marveling at how simple it was. This part -- this part they seemed to have gotten down. This choreography of discovering how they fit together, and could move against each other to fill a mutual need.

Maybe that's what was so scary, Jon realized. _This_ part really was simple and perfect. But the life around it seemed so hard.

That thought, mercifully, dropped away as they began to thrust against each other with more urgency … as Richie's warm palms rode down his back and over his ass, then up again. Jon's mind went completely blank when those fingertips began to tease his tailbone, and then his crevice.

But it was fine, because all he had left then was clarity.

He knew he wanted to feel Richie moving in him. He needed to know what Richie felt like from the inside. He knew he wanted everything.

Richie suddenly grasped onto him a little tighter, like he'd read Jon's mind.

"God, Rich," he choked out, just before his release took over his body.

 

Jon lay still for a while after, with Richie's trembling body supporting him. He knew his weight must be a burden, but didn't have the will to move just yet. And Richie didn't ask him to. 

At some point, he became aware of the muffled sounds of the TV above them, and he remembered where they were, and that they couldn't stay.

Richie's fingertips started tracing lines along his back. "You alive?"

Jon laughed softly, feeling Richie's body move with his.

"Yeah."

"Good."

Slowly, Jon rolled onto his back, then used part of the blanket to wipe at his stomach. As soon as he was done, Richie scooted closer, curling into his side. 

"M'tired," Richie mumbled.

"Yep."

Richie sniffed. "You wanna stay here?"

Jon stared at the ceiling, not trusting that he understood the question. "On the floor?"

"Unh-uh. Upstairs … in a little while."

It was a simple offering, but Jon felt completely thrown -- because it seemed crazier than anything they'd done so far.

"You want me to sneak into your room after your parents go to bed?"

Richie kept his face conveniently hidden under his sex hair. "Uh-huh."

"Like we're sixteen and I'm your girlfriend?"

Richie used his index finger to draw a circle around Jon's navel. "Yeah."

Jon just watched Richie's motions, letting the silence sink in. He hated making a fool of himself, for anyone … On the other hand, he was really tired.

"Jesus Christ," he grumbled. "Fine."

He watched Richie's palm come to rest on his belly, then felt him sigh.

"They'll be outta the way soon," Richie assured him. "They always go up together."

For some inexplicable reason, Jon felt a fleeting ache in his chest.

He cleared his throat. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll them you wear high heels."

"OK."

Jon laid his hand on top of Richie's, then closed his eyes. He was tired and Richie's bed would be warm. It seemed worth the trouble.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie sighed. "Haven't we had this conversation? I know you're not a girl. I wouldn't have chest hair up my nose all the time."

The déjà vu hit him like a brick to the face. Waking up in a bed that wasn't his. Staring at a naked shoulder and a feather-fan of brown hair. Grappling for a moment to remember why he was there.

The similarities to the other morning with what's-her-name were obvious. They'd be funny, actually, if Jon were awake enough to have a sense of humor.

But there were obvious differences, too. This room had no touches of vanilla or flowers -- just stale pizza and dirty socks. The bare shoulder poking out from the blanket was sturdier. The hair was … bigger.

And this time, Jon knew exactly where he was, and the full name of the person beside him -- middle name included. He knew this person was secretly freaked out by spiders and by shower stalls that had doors instead of curtains. And unlike the other morning, when he'd failed to have a single feeling about his situation, this one had his heart and mind racing.

But not in a find-your-pants-and-run kind of way. This was different …

Then the person next to him started snoring, like a fucking rhino in heat.

"Ugh," Jon groused, kicking and connecting with a calf. "Shut up."

Richie whimpered then swatted at him, blindly and half-heartedly. A moment later he was lying still, and mercifully quiet.

Which was exactly what Jon wanted. For some reason, though, he found himself pushing at Richie's shoulder. He didn't question it.

"What?" Richie grouched, refusing to move.

"Wake up."

"Why?"

"Your snoring is, like, the most obnoxious thing I've ever heard."

Richie turned his head, just a little. "You know I snore."

"Yeah." He poked Richie's shoulder again -- just because. "But I've never experienced it this close. My teeth were rattling."

Richie punched the pillow then burrowed his head into it. "Well, I stopped. Go back to sleep."

Jon considered then dismissed the idea. "Can't. I'm awake now."

There was a muffled whine. "I'm not."

Jon kicked him again, lightly. "I'm not just gonna lie here while you sleep another four hours."

Richie flipped onto his back and sighed, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Then don't. Go downstairs and find some food." He looked at Jon hopefully. "I think we have Froot Loops."

Jon grimaced. "You _would_ eat that shit."

"I like how the milk turns pink."

"Yeah, no surprise there, either." Jon rubbed at his nose. "I can't just go down. What if your parents are still home?"

"Y'know, we've shared a bed before. I don't remember you being this annoying."

"Do I have to tell you why this is different?"

Richie yawned, scratching at his scalp and making the volume of his hair even more ridiculous. 

"They're not home. It feels pretty late."

Jon shifted to look around. He knew there was no bedside clock -- because Richie didn't care about time -- but he thought he remembered once seeing a clock lying on the floor.

"And who cares?" Richie said, sounding more alive. "If my mom's there, she'll just be like, 'Oh, Jonny! Let me make you pancakes and tell you about the time Richie peed his pants in kindergarten.'"

Jon couldn't help laughing. He was a sucker for that Jersey falsetto. "Did you really?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Richie stretched his arms overhead. "Sometimes I tried to hold my pee so I didn't miss anything. It backfired on occasion."

Jon stared at his profile. "So you've always been a fucking weirdo."

Richie just smiled at the ceiling.

Jon curled onto his right side, covertly inching closer to Richie. "I'm not hungry yet," he said casually. "I'll wait for you."

Richie side-eyed him in silence, and Jon felt a flash of insecurity -- like maybe he'd made a tactical error. But then Richie rolled over to be face-to-face with him. 

"So," he said with a small smile. "You won't let me sleep, but you don't wanna get up."

Jon kept his face impassive.

Richie's smile broadened. "You want me to entertain you, don't you?"

Jon's lips twitched, but other than that he maintained a demeanor of abject boredom.

"You wanna hear some more kindergarten stories?" Richie asked innocently.

"Nah. I'm still reeling from the cross-dressing revelation."

Richie giggled. He had no poker-face skills whatsoever. Jon kind of liked that about him.

Richie bit his lip and openly scanned Jon's face. "So what do you want?"

Jon was trying to devise a snarky answer when Richie's fingertips touched his cheek then swept over the shell of his ear -- the delicate contact sending an embarrassing tingle through his belly … Or it would've been embarrassing if he'd let it read. Unlike Richie, he didn't display ninety-nine percent of his thoughts and feelings.

He was able to bask in that smugness for roughly three seconds -- before Richie leaned in for a kiss, and Jon realized his dick was not on the same stoic page as his mind. He felt a smile against his lips.

"Hmm," Richie murmured as he pulled back. "I'm not used to my bedmate having morning wood."

Jon huffed, feeling strangely self-conscious. He knew it was stupid. His body was just doing what a guy's body did -- and he wouldn't give a shit if Richie were a chick. 

"Well, I'm not one of your girls, am I?" he countered, an air of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

Richie sighed. "Haven't we had this conversation? I know you're not a girl. I wouldn't have chest hair up my nose all the time."

And just like that, Jon felt better. Maybe that was an advantage of knowing the person you're in bed with.

He smirked. "Stop burying your ugly face in my chest if you don't like it."

Richie's fingertips found his cheek again. "Never said I didn't like it." He glanced down, with no subtlety at all. "Y'know, I can help you with your current state … unless you've changed your mind about the Froot Loops."

"Christ," Jon grumbled. "How do you get any of those chicks to come back a second time?"

Richie smiled as he gently pushed Jon onto his back. "I think you know how."

Jon didn't bother with a response. Words were pointless when those slightly roughened lips were dragging along his jaw and down the side of his neck … nipping at his collarbone … finding the familiar landmarks, then taking time to explore.

This time, Richie got sidetracked to Jon's outer ribs, which were embarrassingly sensitive and usually off-limits. But he was feeling lazy and permissive this morning, so he tolerated the curiosity.

"Mmm." Richie's voice rumbled against him, and Jon caught hold of one of his wrists -- though he couldn't say why. He just felt an urge to latch on.

He flinched a second later when Richie's lips grazed the underneath side of his forearm -- not expecting that particular stimulation. He hadn't even known he had an erogenous zone there. He felt Richie smile at the discovery -- could almost sense him absorbing the new pathway into his muscle memory, like a chord.

Yeah, the guy was mostly terrible at hiding things. Or maybe, Jon acknowledged, he didn't want to.

Even now, he didn't completely understand their feelings for each other, or how it had come to this. But he was becoming convinced it might be better that way … when you didn't have defined reasons like "great tits" and "laughs at my jokes." Because when she stopped laughing at your jokes you weren't left with much.

So it might be better when you didn't completely understand, but just knew.

Anyway, it was hard to argue with the weight of Richie's body, solid and warm, sliding down his own. Moving languidly, but surely, toward that place Jon needed him most.

"Sure they're not home?" Jon asked shakily, raking his fingers through Richie's hair.

Richie just nuzzled his inner thigh with a hum, and Jon's toes started curling and uncurling in anticipation. Still, he couldn't quite settle in.

"Rich?" he said suddenly. "Hey."

He looked down his body to see Richie propped onto a forearm, blinking like he'd just come out of the dark. Jon paused to study him -- how he seemed halfway to drunk, how his hair was refusing to acknowledge the laws of physics. He looked insane and perfectly content, and Jon smiled a little.

"Come up here. I wanna take care of you, too."

As soon as the words were out, he realized how sappy they sounded. He also realized it was the second sappy thing he'd said in the space of minutes. He figured his brain must be confused by how they were lounging in bed, like a couple would.

If Richie noticed, he showed no sign of it. He was too busy scrambling to chuck his boxers and scoot up the bed. When he plunked down, he immediately met Jon's eyes and grinned.

Jon pushed some unruly locks away from his face -- partly as a barrier. It was still tough to accept Richie's undisguised affection.

"No more kissing, though," he declared, to balance out the sweetness. "Your mouth is disgusting right now."

"Then what do you want?" Richie asked, sticking with the innocent act.

Jon reached down to give him a hint, smiling when he got an instant reaction.

Richie bit his bottom lip. "Hang on a sec."

Jon watched as he leaned over the side of the bed and yanked on the nightstand drawer. Even though he realized what must be going on, his eyes widened when Richie presented him with a bottle of lube … with the words "Deep Invasion" emblazoned on it.

Jon blinked. "Wow. Subtle."

He burst out laughing, then watched as Richie's face turned bright red -- which only made him laugh harder. He couldn't help it, even as he apologized for it. 

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "It's just …"

But then Richie was laughing, too, and Jon sort of felt thankful for the absurdity of it all. 

Richie started coughing as he tried to speak. "I didn't name the shit," he defended weakly. "I just -- I read the labels, and this one's the best for …" He rolled his eyes and sighed. "You know."

Jon raised his eyebrows. "Deep invasions?"

Richie smiled sheepishly and looked down at the blanket, the color rising in his cheeks again. 

"It seemed like a good idea."

Jon felt a twinge of guilt. "Yeah," he agreed. "Good call."

Richie glanced at him. "I mean, I'm not saying …" He sighed again, obviously getting annoyed at his own awkwardness. "You can use the stuff on your hands, too." 

"Yeah, I get it," Jon said mildly. "Lie down, OK?"

Without a word, Richie curled onto his side, and the lingering embarrassment was clear in the way he was holding his body. Jon could feel it in his own, actually, because he knew just how much it took to make Richie self-conscious.

An image popped into his mind's eye -- of Richie standing in a Woodbridge Rite-Aid reading lube labels, trying to find the right one. It was bizarre enough to make him want to laugh again. And also bizarrely endearing.

On an impulse, he cupped Richie's cheek and brought their lips together. Richie automatically yielded, but then pulled back a moment later. 

"You said my mouth is disgusting," he mumbled, and Jon could hear the hint of irritation.

"It is," he whispered, before taking Richie's upper lip between his. "So's mine. We'll be fine."

He kept his hand firmly on Richie's cheek as they kissed, like he was afraid he'd move away again. Even when he felt the reassurance of fingertips sliding down his bicep, then softly tracing that spot on his forearm. Even as they shifted closer and their chests connected -- Richie shamelessly working his nipples against Jon's much-maligned chest hair. He sort of wanted to call the little bastard on it. But it seemed like there were better ways to direct his energy.

Richie must've read his mind, because he pulsed his hips forward, brushing their cocks together. Jon gasped at the ripple that moved into his pelvis, then quickly pressed his lips together -- remembering it was possible they weren't alone. Despite Richie's nonchalance, it seemed wise to contain his sounds, just in case.

He supposed it was good practice, this containment. Because god knew they couldn't let things amplify much more. They were already on the brink of being obvious, with all their secretive alone time and -- from what Al said -- unconscious staring across crowded bars. 

Containment. It was good and necessary. But also nearly impossible, Jon thought -- especially with Richie's hand gliding down his ribs, to his hip, then reaching to cup his ass. 

So it wasn't his fault when he broke the kiss and launched a hunt for the Deep Invasion.

"It's right there," Richie said calmly, pointing to a spot on the bed between their shins.

His smirk was annoying as hell, but Jon was pretty sure he could wipe it off his face -- though, as he opened the bottle, he couldn't actually look Richie in the face. The liquid was thicker and more slippery than he'd expected, but he tried not to have a visible reaction. He simply piled some more onto his palm and focused on rubbing his hands together to warm it.

They'd done this enough times now, Jon knew it shouldn't be a big deal. But for some reason, in this moment, it was.

He wrapped his hands around Richie first, listening to his quivering sigh at the first contact … stroking him firmly until his sounds billowed into a continuous low groan. When he paused to tease the tip, Richie grasped his forearm and lurched forward, bringing their foreheads together and their lips a breath apart.

Jon kept his eyes open slightly, so he was able to watch Richie's lips, and how they compulsively moved like he was trying to form words but couldn't.

It shouldn't be a big deal, Jon thought again as he took himself in hand, too.

But then they were rocking against each other, the vibration riding into the pit of his belly, and any _should_ or _shouldn't_ fell away.

And thank fucking god, Jon thought. Because his mind could cook up all the words in the world. Thank god there were things that didn't need words -- or at least not many.

"Jonny," Richie finally managed, before rolling him onto his back and straddling his legs.

Richie's head fell heavily to the pillow next to his as they began to grind their hips together. And by degrees Jon got lost in the friction, the inarticulate sounds, the breath hitting his neck in hot bursts. 

"God," he groaned, forgetting all ideas of containment. He clamped his hands onto Richie's ass, kneading the soft skin there -- occasionally letting his fingertips dip farther than they ever had before.

Richie buried most of his vocal responses in the pillow, but his body was answering very clearly -- hips bucking more insistently, more erratically. 

Jon heard himself quietly cursing and babbling to deities, but it seemed separate from his body. His body was completely absorbed in the heat pulsing through his core, and the solidity of Richie's weight on him and in his hands.

He squeezed the flesh under his palms and kissed the nearest patch of skin. He needed more, but couldn't figure out how. If Richie were a girl, he'd know exactly how. But this … This physical desperation. It was infuriating. And possibly the hottest thing he'd ever suffered through.

Jon took a gulp of air, suddenly needing to know.

"How -- how much do you think about it?"

Richie's breath caught and he slowed his thrusts, somehow hiding himself deeper into the bedding.

Jon pressed his lips to a spot behind Richie's ear, trying to compose himself. "I mean … This lube means _business._ "

Richie made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and Jon brought a hand to the back of his head.

"Don't be embarrassed," he murmured. "I think about it, too."

Richie rolled against him, slow and deliberate, and Jon swore he was seeing those proverbial stars.

Richie lifted his head, just a bit. "Every day."

It took a moment for Jon to realize it was the answer to his question. He shut his eyes and tightened his hold on Richie's hair.

"Me, too."

Richie groaned, sliding his hands under Jon's shoulder blades and finding that turbulent pace again. Jon had never seen him so reactive, and the effect was dizzying. He moved both hands down again, digging his fingertips into that vulnerable skin -- needing to press _in_ somehow, to feel like he was clawing through the surface.

Richie exhaled sharply. "Oh, fuck … Jonny."

There was that familiar voice in the back of Jon's mind, sounding distress signals and warning him he must be a pervert. To not only think the things he'd been thinking, but to say them out loud. To relish hearing Richie say it. 

But the noise was fleeting, and drowned out by what was in front of him, in his arms, in his hands. And it felt fine to lose any shred of dignity he'd imagined he had -- and instead willingly come apart in front of his best friend, underneath his best friend.

Again.

They'd done that enough times, too -- and, so far at least, been able to put each other back together again.

This time was no different, Jon thought as his breath steadied. As his vision cleared and all the ordinary things came back into focus … if lying together like this could ever be ordinary.

At some point, Richie started to shift away. But Jon reached for his shoulders, then brought a hand to his head again -- not quite willing to let him go yet. And for once, not ashamed to show it.

"Did you mean it?" he prodded.

When he got no response, he scratched at Richie's scalp -- because it was actually possible he'd fallen asleep.

"Hmm?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "You think about it every day?"

He felt a tension build in the muscles under his hands, and he almost told Richie to forget it. He didn't need to know.

But then Richie angled his head, bringing his lips to the side of Jon's neck. "Uh-huh," he said, then landed a couple light kisses.

A shiver ran through Jon's body. "Well …" He started tracing circles with his fingertips. "So. Should we do something about it?"

Richie kissed him again. "You want to? Really?"

Jon held on a little tighter. "Yeah."

Richie was perfectly still for a moment; Jon couldn't even feel him breathing. "OK," he said finally, quietly.

They laid there in silence for a while. It wasn't entirely comfortable, Jon thought, but it wasn't exactly awkward, either. It was just silence.

Eventually, Richie shifted in his arms. "Jonny?"

"Yeah?"

"I really do want Froot Loops now."

Jon snorted, easing his grip and allowing Richie sit up -- just enough to gaze down with a woozy grin.

Jon tried to look disgusted. "It's like you get weirder every day."

Richie hummed happily.

Jon was going to respond, but he was suddenly acutely aware of the unpleasant stickiness covering his belly and chest. 

"Um," he began, then hesitated. "Would it be wrong if I took a shower?" 

Richie furrowed his brow. "How could that be wrong?"

Jon shrugged. "I dunno. I've never done that here."

"Our shower is shockingly similar to other showers."

Jon sighed. "Never mind, you brat."

Richie smiled. "You can go first. Make sure you get all that Deep Invasion off your hands before you touch my mom's cereal bowls." He crossed his arms and wrinkled his nose, ala Mrs. Sambora. "Why are these so _stick-yyy?_ " 

In an instant, Jon remembered the Samboras had Mickey Mouse cereal bowls. And it made him feel like a pervert all over again.

Richie laughed, like he knew exactly what Jon was thinking. "Go ahead, man."

Jon shook his head as he dragged himself to his feet. "Seriously. Fucking weirdo."

He waited until he was safely out the door to smile.

*****

It was another one of Al's friends. Another Staten Island bar with a jacked-up sound system and a gummy floor and a stifling haze of smoke. Normally, Jon didn't even notice that shit -- He'd been working bars since high school and had grown immune to their assaults on the senses.

But tonight, everything was annoying the hell out of him.

Dave put his forearms on the table and leaned forward, squinting at him. "What's up with you?" 

Jon drained his beer then shrugged.

Dave sat back but kept eyeing him. "I mean, I realize these guys should be playing bar mitzvahs in Teaneck. But you don't hafta take it so hard, man."

Jon shook his head. "M'tired. Just in a bad mood. Sorry."

"Well," Dave said brightly, raising his glass, "the best cure for that would be the brunette in blue at the bar. Poor thing." He stuck his bottom lip out. "Her titties keep falling out of her dress."

Jon smiled. He'd already noticed her. It was hard not to. Besides her wayward tits, she'd been glancing over at their table constantly for the last few agonizing songs. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't considering it.

But he was dog-tired. Knocked out by the whirlwind of final writing, recording the bare-bones demos, dealing with all the people who wanted to manage them. Dealing with … everything.

He stared at his empty mug. If it were just one kind of pressure, he could handle it. But he didn't have the energy to worry about everything. He needed some kind of anchor. And that was the problem. He and Richie had been pushed out of their little world, and he was missing the refuge -- as fucked up as it was.

"Where's Rich tonight?" Dave asked, eerily on cue.

Jon felt his jaw clench reflexively. "He's playing a club in … Bayonne or some shit."

Richie had been busy every night that week with gigs -- just doing covers to make some money and not be such a mooch at home. Jon supposed that was a pretty adult thing to do. But he'd learned that the more gigs Richie played, the more his own mood declined. Which was a fucking scary discovery -- to realize how reliant he'd become.

It wasn't that he was lonely, exactly. There'd been girls, for both of them. Since Jennifer, Richie had actually had the grace to usher them out before Jon came over. But there were always traces left behind. Jon knew, every time. And he retaliated every time.

Or maybe _retaliate_ wasn't the right word. That wasn't the only reason he was hooking up. And it wasn't like Richie was doing something wrong. They'd never said they were swearing off girls -- because that would be insane.

But it was always in the back of his mind, any time he was with a new conquest. The idea that Richie was with someone else, too.

And there were times he wondered if there were special mental hospitals for people like him. Straight guys who could be buried in a beautiful, willing woman and imagining it was their male best friend instead.

"Is everything OK with you guys?"

Jon looked up from his glass, thrown by the question. He could feel his heartbeat in his chest as he met Dave's questioning eyes.

"Huh? Yeah. Why?"

Dave shrugged before polishing off his bourbon. "I dunno. Just asking."

Jon pretended to be interested in the one-note guitar solo that had taken over the stage. He knew Dave was unhappy about the way things were unfolding with this album. And he knew it was his fault. But it was one more thing he didn't need to think about right now.

"We're fine," he said, keeping his eyes on the stage -- not even sure whether Dave heard him. 

They were fine. There hadn't been a fight, or any drama. There was just too much shit going on now, Jon told himself. No time for hiding away anymore. No time for trying what they'd both said they wanted.

He tapped his fingertips on the table, like he was getting into the music. Like he was keeping time.

He wasn't an idiot. It was possible they just weren't _making_ time, for whatever reason. It was possible Richie was thinking of him every time he did a random girl. It was also possible the girls were pulling him away, back to his normal life.

Lots of things were possible, Jon supposed.

"So anyway." Dave's voice shook him free from his thoughts, and Jon turned to see him smirking. "You gonna do something about her? 'Cause if you're not interested …"

Jon looked over to the bar, where -- sure enough -- Miss Slippery Tits was giving him the eye. This time, though, he smiled. She bit her lip and quickly turned away, with a fake shyness that was so blatant, Jon almost laughed. She seemed like she might be entertaining at least.

He looked at Dave and grinned. "I'm feeling more awake all of a sudden."

Dave returned the grin. " _Awake._ What a polite word for it."

Jon pushed to stand, a little unsteadily, then paused to get his bearings. The girl turned again, this time holding his gaze and smiling. It was a pretty smile, he realized, and she had legs for miles. Suddenly he was feeling honestly drawn to her.

He clapped Dave on the shoulder and started to make his way over, more sure with each step. He'd never seen her in his life, but she reminded him of someone.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They didn't shovel romantic clichés at each other. They saved that for girls, and songs about girls.

He felt like an asshole. Standing there, rubbing his arms against the cold, just staring at the front door.

He could ring the bell. He should ring the bell, if he didn't want his fingers to fall off from frostbite. Not to mention he'd come over with the express purpose of ringing the bell and going inside. But now, with the reality in front of him, he couldn't quite do it. 

He wasn't supposed to be there. They weren't working on anything. And if he rang the bell, Richie would probably answer it. Eventually. And then Jon would be forced to explain why he was there.

_I just wanted to see you._

He almost gagged saying it in his head. Even if he managed to speak the words, he had no doubt Richie would laugh at him. They didn't shovel romantic clichés at each other. They saved that for girls, and songs about girls.

Jon sighed. "Jesus Christ."

He rang the bell. He was freezing, and it was almost one o'clock, and Richie should be ready for Froot Loops or pizza.

Unless, of course, he was entertaining a guest.

Jon's heart sank as the seconds ticked and he realized there was almost no chance Richie was alone. He had to wonder how that hadn't occurred to him before. Or maybe it had and he'd resolved to not give a shit.

But as he waited, he began to distinctly give a shit. Because he was picturing Richie in a coma, and some random blonde lazily pulling her clothes on before staggering toward the front door. And what the fuck was he going to say to her?

_Hi. I'm Jon Bon Jovi. Did you enjoy getting nailed by my guitarist?_

_Hi. I'm Jon Bon Jovi, lead singer of Bon Jovi. I think you should know he has herpes._

_Hi. I'm Jon Bon Jovi. Mrs. Sambora is never gonna make you rigatoni._

Jon was smiling to himself by the time the door swung open. Thankfully, there was no petite blonde to verbally destroy. Just a six-foot heap of groggy, hairy confusion.

"Hey," Richie greeted through a cough. "What's up?"

"Um." Jon shrugged. "Nothing."

Richie scrubbed a hand over his face, swiping his bangs away from his eyes. "Did I forget something? Are we workin'?"

Jon shook his head. "Nope."

Richie looked at him expectantly, and Jon responded by kicking at the porch railing. That's when he noticed a pile of mail poking out from the box by the door. He grabbed it.

"Here," he said, handing the stack over.

Richie pushed his bottom lip out. "You came to deliver the mail?"

Jon shrugged again. "Am I bothering you? I was just heading" -- He hooked a thumb toward his left -- "and I figured I'd stop by."

Richie smiled faintly. "Nah, I don't have anything goin' on." He stepped aside. "C'mon in, man. It's freezing."

"No shit," Jon muttered as he brushed past. 

"Well, if you'd called …"

"You wouldn't have answered."

Jon tossed his jacket onto the stairway banister, like always. He turned to face Richie, who was eyeing him curiously. He automatically looked down at his feet, and caught sight of his muddy shoe prints on the tile.

Richie made a _tsk_ sound. "Dude, are you an animal? Take your shoes off. I got hell yesterday for _tracking half of Bayonne into the house._ "

Jon chuckled as he kicked his sneakers off and threw them onto the doormat. "You can tell her I did it. I'm not scared."

Richie gave him a skeptical look. "You'll regret those words."

He turned and headed toward the kitchen. Jon trailed behind, assuming he had an open invitation to breakfast/lunch.

"But I wouldn't wanna shatter her illusions," Richie rambled on. "She thinks you're perfect." He glanced back and grinned. "If she only knew."

Jon felt that familiar swoop in his belly, and it kind of irritated him -- how easily Richie's flirting could knock him off his axis. But he kind of loved it, too.

He flopped into a chair at the table while Richie retrieved the pot from the coffee maker and dumped its remains into the sink. Jon took in his appearance -- bulky white socks, one leg of his hole-ridden sweatpants pushed up to his knee, random NASCAR sweatshirt. It seemed unlikely he'd been with a girl.

"So where you goin'?" Richie asked, keeping his back to Jon as he filled the pot with water.

Jon tapped his fingers on the kitchen table. "Uh. Just … I'm meeting someone for lunch."

_Lame. So lame._

Richie poured the water into the machine. "Oh." He reached for the canister of coffee -- the same Italian stuff Jon's mom used. "Who is it?"

Jon kept drumming his fingers. "Um. Just some girl. You don't know her."

_God, I'm an asshole._

"Oh," Richie repeated, measuring the coffee into the filter basket. Jon was mildly impressed with his skills.

"So do you want me to make enough for you?" Richie asked, resolutely keeping his eyes on his work.

"Sure," Jon chirped, then winced at his enthusiasm. "I mean, I'm not in a hurry or anything."

Richie glanced at him. "Just killin' time, huh?"

"Guess so."

Richie turned the machine on then sat down across from Jon, at his mom's place. It was only then Jon realized he was sitting at the head of the table. Not that it mattered … He just noticed it.

"I didn't know you could actually operate a kitchen appliance," he said, jutting his chin toward the coffee maker.

"I'm multi-faceted."

Jon smiled. "Really. I'm dazzled. You're in charge of coffee when we get to Vancouver."

Richie scowled. "I ain't gettin' up early to caffeinate your asses."

Jon rolled his eyes. "I don't think we'll have a lotta early mornings." He went back to tapping a rhythm on the table. "You started packing yet?"

Richie stared in disbelief. "We're not leaving for …" He paused and looked skyward. "Two more days."

Jon smirked. "At least you remembered."

The coffee maker started burbling louder, and that satisfying, grounding scent wafted across the kitchen. 

Richie regarded him for a moment, like he was gearing up to say something, but abruptly stood up instead. He nabbed a couple mugs from the tree-looking thing on the counter, then brought Jon the chipped one that said "#1 Dad." 

Jon smiled a little as he set it down. Richie was possibly the only person he knew who fully believed that dishware sentiment.

"Get the cream from the fridge," Richie ordered as he went to monitor the coffee's progress. "Make yourself useful."

"It won't drip any faster just 'cause you're staring at it," Jon informed him.

"I'm the coffee master. Don't question me."

Jon shook his head as he pushed to his feet. When he opened the fridge, his eyes immediately fell on the pizza box taking up the whole bottom shelf. It had to be Richie's doing. Mrs. Sambora always wrapped the leftover slices in foil. Always. Richie probably grabbed a pie on his way home last night, then sat there at 3 a.m., eating it by himself. 

Jon snagged the carton of cream from the door shelf, then halted, holding the door open as a cover.

"Rich?"

"Yeah."

"I don't have a lunch date."

There was no answer, so Jon closed the door and looked over to where Richie stood -- hands on the counter, still eyeing the coffee. Richie used his foot to push down the errant sweatpants cuff.

"I know," he finally replied, off-handedly.

Jon felt his cheeks flushing -- unsure whether Richie was lying, or if he really was that transparent.

He put the carton on the table. "Aren't you gonna ask me why I'm here?"

Richie kept watching the coffee drip. "Aren't you gonna tell me?"

Jon laughed softly. Their mutual stubbornness could be so stupid, but somehow it usually worked.

"I wanted to see you," he said -- and didn't even gag.

Richie looked over his shoulder, this time with one of those coquettish expressions he favored. He thought that shit made him irresistible. 

"How come?"

Jon sighed. "I'm having a hard time remembering, actually. Somehow I forgot how annoying you are."

Richie turned and leaned back on the counter -- trying to look seductive in his too-big sweats, with his hair sticking out six ways from Sunday.

"Has it been that long since we've hung out? So to speak."

Jon snorted. "I haven't been keeping track." He couldn't help smiling at his own barefaced lie.

Richie returned the smile, and Jon tried not to judge the ache in his chest.

"So you just wanna have some coffee and Froot Loops?" Richie asked innocently, then held up his palms. "Oh, sorry. Maybe I can make you something bland and beige. My Cream of Wheat is excellent."

Jon shook his head. "How do you make everything dirty? Even wholesome breakfast foods."

Richie just kept smiling, and the warmth in Jon's chest started to burn a line down his belly. He sat down so Richie couldn't read him quite so easily.

"I'm not hungry," he said, his voice suddenly a little huskier.

Richie shifted his weight on his feet. "Then what do you want?"

Jon gave a little shrug. "Coffee," he said, matter-of-factly. "I've never tasted yours, remember?"

Richie squinted, looking thoughtful. "Huh. Guess you haven't."

Jon smiled and reached for the elephant sugar bowl. "There's a first time for everything."

*****

It was déjà vu all over again. That was the Yogi Berra quote, right?

He was pretty sure. But the only thing he knew right now was, he'd been here before. Sitting on Richie's bed, waiting for him to finish up in the shower. Waiting to do unspeakable things while Richie's parents were at work … while they still had a chance to be alone. While they were still just their regular selves at home in New Jersey, and not trying to be rock stars.

It was almost the same as before. Except this time as they made their way upstairs, Richie had seemed nervous, too. And it seemed like he was taking his sweet time scrubbing behind his ears -- though Jon couldn't be sure. Maybe it was just his own eagerness, and his own nerves, that were making time drag.

When the bedroom door finally cracked open, he was ready to jump out of his skin.

"Hey," he said, glancing at Richie just long enough to confirm that he was, in fact, wet and wearing a towel. Like last time.

"Hey," Richie replied, with the same phony nonchalance.

He retreated to his dresser and started pushing around the scattered debris, like he was seeking some vital post-shower tool. After a fruitless search, he looked at Jon's reflection in the mirror.

"Sorry I took so long."

Jon shrugged at Richie's reflection. "Didn't even notice."

Richie dropped his gaze then turned around, grasping the edge of the dresser.

"Jonny? You know I haven't been avoiding you, right?"

Jon opened and closed his mouth, like an idiot, before finding an appropriate lie. "Oh. Yeah, sure. You … We've both been busy."

Richie started chewing on his lip. "Yeah. And …" He scratched at his wet hair. "Well, that's not true, actually. I guess I've been avoiding you a little."

Jon's face fell before he could help it. "Oh."

"But not 'cause I didn't wanna see you," Richie added hastily. "I did."

"OK," Jon said, still trying to sound detached.

Richie didn't seem to notice, or he didn't buy it. He crossed his arms and looked toward the window.

"I've just been thinking, and … Well. I'm not gay, you know."

At first, Jon was dumbstruck. He was not expecting Richie to bring up that particular biographical detail. At the same time, he felt vaguely thankful someone was finally acknowledging the gay elephant in the room.

He just wasn't sure what to do with it all. So he said the first thing that came to mind.

"Neither am I."

Richie looked over sharply. "Oh, I wasn't saying … I just mean …" He huffed in frustration. "Ugh. Sorry."

"OK," Jon repeated. "I mean, it's OK."

Richie kept his eyes down, at a spot on the carpet between them.

"I, uh … Well, you keep saying this is easy for me." He tightened his grip on the dresser. "So I just wanted you to know ... I've never done this before."

He glanced at Jon and smiled self-consciously. "You're the only … I've never done _anything_ with a guy."

Jon felt his shoulders release, in something like relief. "Yeah. I know," he assured, even though he hadn't known.

Richie studied him for a moment. "OK," he said slowly. "So, the thing is, I've been thinking" -- He rolled his eyes at his own hesitancy -- "If we, y'know, do something _more_ … What do you think that would mean?"

Jon furrowed his brow, uncertain of the question. "You mean, would that make us gay or something?"

Even in the faint daylight, he could see the color rise in Richie's cheeks. "No," he replied defensively. "Or … maybe. I dunno. It's just something I've been thinking about."

Jon found he was still at a loss. It seemed like Richie wanted reassurance -- but he was probably looking to the wrong source.

Jon forced a little laugh. "Why are you suddenly worried about the meaning of things?" 

Richie frowned, and Jon thought he detected genuine hurt in his eyes. "Just 'cause I don't ponder the shit outta everything, like you do, it doesn't mean …"

Jon waited for him to go on, but he just shook his head. "Forget it, man."

Richie hung his head, and Jon watched as two little rivulets of water escaped his sopping hair and ran down his belly.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, honestly. "I was just being stupid 'cause --" He finished with a shrug.

Richie looked at him, then gave a slight nod to let him know they were OK.

"I don't know what it would mean," Jon admitted. "Maybe just … that we wanted to."

Richie didn't answer, and after a moment Jon noticed a little smile pulling at his lips. He found himself matching it, because he could see exactly what was going through that wet head.

"I know," Jon said. "I can't believe I'm the one being all zen, either."

Richie chuckled, in his usual, easy way, and Jon hauled himself to his feet. He wanted to be the one who moved forward this time. He'd driven all the way over the bridge, after all.

Richie stood stock-still as Jon brought a hand to the nape of his neck, pausing to rub his fingertips there. He scanned Richie's face before his eyes automatically landed on those lips.

"So. How'd I get so lucky? To be the only guy." It was sincere, the question under the joke -- and he trusted that would get through. 

Richie darted his eyes to the side. "Well. You're, like, the best-looking human I've ever seen." He looked down and caught Jon's belt loops in his fingers. "It pisses me off sometimes, to be honest."

Jon smiled -- a broad, beaming grin he would normally hate. But this wasn't really a normal moment. He moved his hand a little, just feeling the damp locks between his fingers.

Richie met his eyes, still seeming uncertain. He tugged lightly on the belt loops. "So. Why me?"

Jon leaned in. "No idea," he murmured before gently taking Richie's bottom lip between his.

He wasn't strictly dodging the question. He had reasons, but he couldn't name them. Not right now, anyway. He was too invested in the still-surprising softness of his best friend's lips moving against his, finding the corner of his mouth, his chin, his jaw. 

At some point, his eyes fluttered open and he caught sight of himself in the mirror. And for an instant, he froze -- struck by the image of his flushed cheeks, his slack jaw, the way he was angling his head to yield to every touch of those hungry lips. The way his fingertips were digging into that naked back. His brain registered that he should be ashamed.

The rest of him, however, didn't seem to be listening.

Because he watched, with eyes wide open, as his hand trailed down to loosen the towel. He felt his whole body tingle at the way Richie groaned when it hit the floor. And then he was watching himself being pushed back toward the bed. Watching his hands roam that beautiful expanse of skin without any guilt.

And his mind turned into some distant observer.

At some point in his life he'd learned it was a precious thing when feeling took over -- whether it was on a stage or sitting by himself with an acoustic.

And it was just as true in his best friend's dimly lit bedroom. Where he could fall onto his back and let himself be undressed. Where it was fine to let that wanton mouth draw paths up and down his body. To let himself gasp at the little nips finding places he hadn't fully lived in before.

Where he could actually summon the courage to say what he wanted.

He slid both hands into Richie's hair, holding on as that hot tongue lapped at his navel. "Hey," he whispered shakily. "Look at me."

Richie lifted up a bit, blinking to refocus his sex-dazed eyes.

Jon swallowed hard. "I, uh … I'll let you do it."

Richie parted his lips, but then seemed frozen. Jon shook his head a little. "I mean, I want you to," he amended.

Richie's eyes bugged out. "Now?"

He looked so stupefied that Jon would've laughed at him in any other situation. But in this moment, the combination of deep need and deep fear was too overpowering.

"Yeah."

Richie sat up. "You're … y'know, ready?"

Jon felt his face starting to burn. He'd done some reading and ... done a couple things. He was pretty sure he was ready. If there was such a thing.

"Uh-huh."

Richie slowly crawled up the bed till they were face-to-face. "But …" He glanced toward the window and back again. "I've never done this."

Jon smiled a little, grateful for the distraction from his own nerves. "I know. You mentioned that," he teased mildly.

Richie dipped his chin. "I'm afraid I'll hurt you."

Jon brought a hand to Richie's arm and found the muscle there trembling. 

"You really are scared," he blurted without thinking. 

Richie refused to look at him. "Yeah."

And just like that, Jon knew he'd never been so attracted to anyone in his life. It was the clearest, simplest thing he'd felt in a while. 

"Rich," he began. When nothing else occurred to him, he gave up -- opting instead to grab both sides of Richie's head and pull him down for a kiss. 

Richie whimpered into his mouth as their bodies fell into perfect alignment, and Jon shivered at the charge that rolled through him and out of his toes -- maybe as much from the sound as from the friction. And he knew he needed more of both.

He snaked his hands down and around Richie's hips to cup his ass, arching into him as he massaged the soft skin with heels of his hands. Richie broke the kiss, making some sound of pleased distress, before diving down to devour Jon's neck. 

A groan tore free from Jon's chest, against his will -- and he had to acknowledge the impossibility of maintaining any kind of upper hand in this situation. He was going to be a fucking mess … but he wouldn't be alone.

He kneaded the flesh under his palms with a little more urgency, letting his fingertips skim the crease -- feeling humid breath at his neck, striking in sharp puffs with each tease of his fingers. Jon rolled his hips, desperate for more contact, and Richie moaned before shifting abruptly to lave the shell of his ear. Somehow, even as Jon flagrantly purred at the attention, he registered that the movement had lifted Richie's hips. He couldn't resist dipping his fingers lower.

"Fuck," Richie hissed, flinching away from the touch before raising his head. "I -- I think you're confused about how this works."

Jon smiled. "Nah. Just tryin' to help you relax."

Richie dropped his head and his eyelashes brushed against Jon's cheek. "I question your methods."

"Heh -- Guess so," Jon conceded. He started running his palms along Richie's back, taking in the waves of heat already pouring from his skin … remembering, without trying, how cold he'd been about an hour ago.

Then he realized Richie had gone perfectly still.

"Hey," Jon murmured into the damp hair. "You're not falling asleep on me, are you?"

He felt the tickle of a quick laugh. "Not a chance."

He kissed the top of Richie's head, just because he could. "Good. I've got plans."


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here he was, stone-cold sober, and he could see it was all inevitable.

Somehow, Jon still had the cognizance to marvel at it all -- the bigger picture. A month ago, he would never have imagined himself with Richie like this. Or if he _had_ imagined it, he would've been wasted. And he would've demanded another shot to obliterate his thinking capacity. He would've hit on the hottest chick in close proximity -- as long as she didn't have long brown hair.

In a sober state, he would never have allowed his mind go there.

But now here he was, stone-cold sober, and he could see it was all inevitable. He could see that this sonuvabitch had been steadily burrowing into the fibers of his skin since the first day. Becoming his guitarist and then, bit by bit, becoming other things. His main songwriting partner, his sounding board, his best friend. His dirty little secret.

And now, the only guy he'd ever let touch him this way.

No, not _let._ The only guy he wanted this way. The only guy he would ever wrap his limbs around, curl into so close they were exchanging the same air as they breathed.

The only _person_ he'd ever felt inside of him.

Jon dared to slide his leg a little higher onto Richie's hip, as that slick finger probed deeper. It wasn't painful, but it wasn't exactly turning him on yet. So he couldn't help wriggling a little, trying to guide Richie -- even though he knew it was the blind finger-fucking the blind.

"'M sorry," Richie murmured, his breath warm on Jon's lips.

Jon gripped his arm. "It's fine. Keep going." 

He landed a kiss near Richie's mouth, misaimed and sloppy. His message got through, though, because Richie leaned in and found a spot right below Jon's jawline -- tracing a cool wet line down the side of his neck to his collarbone. Giving him a familiar pleasure to distract from the foreign pressure.

Jon moved his hand, pressing his finger pads against Richie's scalp. "Keep going," he repeated. 

They both needed the words, he thought. Because as he clung to Richie's body, he could feel the tension in the muscles under him. He could sense the apprehension, the arousal -- all of it being transmitted into his own hyper-aware body. 

He was about to whisper his encouragement again, but his breath was suddenly trapped in his chest. 

"Fuck," he gasped with his last bit of air. And then he was transfixed by a charge that started deep within his pelvis and fountained outward, into his cock, his inner thighs, his low belly. 

"That OK?" Richie asked.

Jon could only choke out a laugh. He brought his hand to Richie's arm again and held on for dear life as another surge moved through him, making him go rigid all the way down to his toes. 

"God," he panted, arching toward the contact inside. "Right there."

Richie smiled against his collarbone before peppering him with more kisses, that easy smugness becoming palpable again. It would've been annoying, except those fingers suddenly knew _exactly_ what they were doing. And Jon was losing himself as the internal sparks evolved into a sustained thrum that kept spreading -- till it almost seemed like his lungs would seize up. It occurred to him, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, it wouldn't be a bad way to die.

He sighed as a moist heat swept across the base of his throat -- the softness tempering the growing intensity inside.

"Always been a quick learner," Richie mumbled, nuzzling the crook of his neck. "Mastered the accordion in a day."

Jon laughed again, though it came out like a wheeze. "Don't" -- He grunted as Richie curved his fingers -- "compare me to a fucking accordion."

"Hmm. 'Kay."

Jon shivered at the simple sensation of Richie's breath on his neck. It was like the waves rolling through him were breaking the surface now, making his skin almost painfully sensitized. Painful in the most addictive way.

Another wave hit and suddenly his limbs broke free of their paralysis, and his hands were searching, taking hold anywhere they could so he didn't fall apart too soon. God, he didn't want that.

His knee, perched on Richie's hip, pressed down hard before dragging along the side of that long leg. He was aware of his own desperation -- the fact that he was basically trying to _climb_ his best friend. But he had no room for shame. Because it was too much -- the instinctive pull to shove himself into the heat of this willing body, but wanting to feel more inside of himself, too. He'd never had both desires, and his nerves seemed to be firing erratically from confusion.

Jon kept squirming until their cocks brushed, and they moaned in synchrony. The way that external and internal friction converged, in a mix of bliss and frustration … It crossed his mind that there was no way he could take it all.

"Jonny?" Richie's voice sounded strained. "Your nails."

It took a beat for Jon to realized he was clawing the soft skin of Richie's upper back.

"Sorry."

The word came automatically, but he couldn't actually let go. Instead, he nestled in closer, tipping Richie partway onto his back. 

"Pull out," he urged, then tilted his head to see Richie, blinking rapidly and looking unsure again.

"Just" -- Jon swallowed -- "I need you on your back."

He watched Richie's eyes darken instantly, in unguarded want, and that same doubt flared again -- the fear that he wouldn't see this through. But it vanished just as quickly, because he had to contend with the unexpected burn of Richie's fingers leaving him … the unexpected emptiness left behind.

He had to deal with the fact that Richie had done what he said and was staring up at him, eyes completely black now.

Jon shook his head, like he could shed any mental roadblocks, then reached toward the nightstand. He always felt better when he had some task to perform, some sense that he was setting the stage for success. He tossed a condom onto Richie's belly without looking at him, like they did this shit all the time, then grabbed the bottle of lube. That fucking lube that seemed way less hilarious now.

_It's just a cock,_ he told himself as he dropped a generous dollop onto his palm.

It wasn't the first time he'd said that in his head. And it was just as stupid now. Because he still couldn't look at Richie's face, even as he took him in hand. He still couldn't control the tremors running through him and out of his fingertips.

And he absolutely couldn't handle the way Richie was wriggling and panting just from the touch of his hand.

"OK," Jon murmured, mostly to himself, before straddling Richie on all fours.

Almost immediately, he felt his cheeks warming at the indignity of his position -- the way he was just parked there awkwardly, ass in the air, because he wasn't sure of his next move. 

Richie glanced down the front of their bodies, then brought his hands to Jon's flanks. "What should I do?" 

Jon exhaled, partly soothed by their shared and strange virginity. "Nothing. Just, uh -- I need to go slow. Let me do it, OK?"

Richie forced a laugh as he trailed his fingertips along Jon's ribs. "Always the control freak."

It was a joke, Jon knew, but he couldn't help bristling at the words. "You would be, too, if you were doing this." 

He winced at his tone, not meaning to be so snappish. But Richie just gave him a little smile of understanding, then brought a hand to the back of his head.

"Whatever you need," he whispered before drawing Jon down for a kiss.

Jon readily delved into the connection, as much from the comfort as desire. The sweet taste of that freshly washed skin mixed with a sheen of perspiration. The scent of vaguely girly coconut shampoo. He'd gotten used to those details. Wanted them.

Jon shifted for a better angle, then hissed as that hard cock pressed up behind his balls. His elbows collapsed to either side of Richie's head, like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. And he supposed he had.

"Jonny?" Richie's voice was at his ear, hands caressing his hips. "Um, maybe …"

He finished the thought by rocking his hips again, and Jon heard himself groan. Found himself pushing onto his hands, scooting back, trusting that somehow he could do this without being ripped in half. Richie reached to take hold of himself, but his eyes never left Jon's. It was unnerving and reassuring at the same time.

"Rich," he said hoarsely. "Just … It has to be slow."

Richie bit his lip and nodded, and it was enough.

Jon tried not to think about what was technically happening as he cautiously lowered -- taking in just the tip of Richie's cock, then stopping dead like he was handling fucking dynamite. He held his breath as a swell rose from the pit of his belly. It reminded him of the feeling he used to get on the rollercoaster at Palisades Amusement Park, before they shut that rickety shit down. 

_I'm losing my mind._

It was a fleeting thought, because Richie's fingers were suddenly digging into his thighs, pulling him back to the present.

"Jon. I …"

That was all, but something about Richie's voice made his chest hurt.

"I know," Jon said, because that seemed like the right response. 

He drew a deep breath then eased himself down another inch. And it hurt. There was no way around it -- It fucking hurt. So he kept his eyes on Richie's face, even though he wasn't looking back anymore. He'd squeezed his eyes shut, grabbing the edge of the pillow with his free hand, still biting down on his lip. Trying so hard not to thrust up.

And Jon decided he could endure a little more. He seemed to have some kind of blind faith it was worth it, and that only happened to him once in a while.

He clenched his jaw and took in what he could. He would've pushed -- tried to get to that _place_ all at once -- but Richie tossed his head to the side and groaned so low and deep, the reverb shot through Jon's entire body. It left him breathless for a moment, and it was almost enough of a balm for the burning pain. Almost.

"Gonna move," he ground out, before lifting slightly and lowering again.

And thank fucking god, there it was. That pulse of primal gratification moving out to every pore of his skin.

"Fuck," he grunted, lurching forward and landing his palms on Richie's chest … scrabbling for a foothold, as his knees slid out and he sank a little farther.

Some kind of incoherent noise escaped him, but it barely mattered. Because as he moved the pleasure started mingling with the pain, creating a strange ecstasy he'd never felt before. And the doubt, the fear began to drop away, like heavy things he didn't need to carry. 

Jon didn't realize he'd closed his eyes until he felt warm hands sliding around his ribs. When he looked down, he saw Richie watching him, blinking against tears, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to make a sound. 

It occurred to Jon then, he hadn't even asked.

Without thinking, he grabbed Richie's wrist and kissed his palm. "This OK?"

Richie let out a surprised laugh. "Uh, yeah," he said breathlessly. "It's … good."

Jon smiled, despite the still-present sense that he was, in fact, being pulled apart. He let go of Richie's hand then leaned forward, just to get some relief for his thighs -- and was promptly hit with a jolt of electricity that rode far into his fatigued legs, and up high into his belly.

"Christ." Jon's elbows buckled again, as he instinctively began to rock forward and back.

And then he was moaning, low and continuous, in time with the whine of the bed. Dimly, he realized this couldn't be the most satisfying action for Richie. But the way it felt inside of him, the way the underneath side of his cock was sliding along the soft, overheated skin of Richie's belly …

"God," he breathed. "Rich."

He felt palms run up his thighs, around his hips, then back down again. "It's good," Richie assured softly, continuing to move his hands along the same path.

Jon sighed. _It's good._

Maybe it was wrong, but it was good.

Richie started circling his hips, making Jon curse and dig his nails into the flesh under his hands. Based on the way his eyes rolled back, Richie didn't mind. The sight made Jon's chest constrict, till it felt like it could cave in on itself. And he knew it was time.

With the last strength he had, he pushed upright again, propping a hand behind him on Richie's thigh and trying to find a rhythm again.

" _Fuck,_ ," Richie gasped, pressing his head back into the pillow. "Jonny."

Jon had no voice to answer. He could only reach down and stroke himself, because if he didn't he'd surely die. He closed his eyes only to feel, a moment later, his hand being swatted away.

He heard the words, "I got you," and almost whimpered in relief.

Because it was all he could do to ride the rest of this out. To finally, in the end, lose all the control he'd tried so hard to keep. To just give in to the sinful heat wrapped around him and within him. To let it be good even if it was wrong. 

There was a moment, even as the energy concentrated low in his pelvis, where Jon felt a vague anxiety. A kernel of doubt that he'd come from this. But then Richie arched and made some tortured, strangled sound. And it was that -- the echo moving through Jon's body -- that tipped him over the brink and sent him tumbling.

It seemed like a long way down -- a long time till he was completely empty. But eventually he landed, sprawled on top of Richie, chest to chest.

Almost immediately, he tangled both hands into Richie's damp hair, held his head firm, but stopped short of kissing him. Instead he just hovered as they both found their breath together. 

Richie's palms swept down his back and over the curve of his ass.

"You OK?" he murmured, a hint of concern in his eyes. Maybe because of the way Jon was holding him and staring like a crazy person …

"Uh-huh," Jon managed before bringing their lips together.

They kissed softly, haphazardly, and he kept working his hands through Richie's hair, forming it into shapes. Because somehow, through everything they'd just done, Jon had missed touching him in this simple way.

And that's when he knew he was screwed.

At some point, Richie gently rolled Jon off of him and retrieved the abandoned bath towel. Jon hadn't even felt the mess until the towel landed on his belly with a whoosh. The bed creaked as Richie climbed back in and curled up beside him, close but not touching.

In his periphery, Jon could see those eyes studying him, but he ignored the attention in favor of meticulously cleaning himself off. When he tossed the towel to the floor and flopped onto his back, he could still feel Richie's gaze.

Jon sighed at the ceiling. "I'm OK."

He side-eyed his bedmate and saw a smile tugging at his lips.

Richie reached out to skim his fingertips along Jon's forearm. "But are you more than OK?" 

Jon couldn't fend off a smile of his own. "Think so."

Richie's eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. "Me, too."

Jon flipped onto his side, openly scanning Richie's face until it obviously became uncomfortable for him.

Richie narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Jon hesitated, pressing his lips together. He knew he should be more patient. He knew it was too soon. But he wanted to know something -- needed to know. He just didn't know how to put the question together without sounding stupid.

"I was just thinking," he ventured casually. "You think it's legal to take your guitarist across international borders to do him?"

Richie's face turned beet-red in a heartbeat. "Oh, uh." He chuckled nervously. "Good question."

Jon instantly regretted the joke. "Sorry," he said. "I'm just kidding." He paused, realizing that wasn't really true. "Or maybe not kidding, but … I don't _expect_ you to, just 'cause …"

Richie looked to the side. "I know."

Jon reflexively reached out for his hand. "Really."

Richie met his eyes and smiled awkwardly. "Yeah. I know" He looked down at their clasped hands. "I, uh … I guess I didn't think you'd want to."

"Why wouldn't I?" Jon blurted out.

Richie shifted a bit, clearly ill at ease. "I dunno."

Jon waited, and Richie rolled his eyes -- knowing what the silence meant. "I dunno, OK?"

Richie turned onto his back, in a clear signal he was done. But Jon knew if he just prodded and cajoled enough, he could get a full confession. Still, something told him he shouldn't -- that they owed each other some privacy after all.

So against all his natural instincts, Jon nodded. "OK."

Richie turned his head, looking thrown by the easy out. He covered by moving in for another brief kiss. As he pulled away, Jon slipped a hand to the side of his head to stop him. He had something else to say, but again had no idea how.

"You're different."

Richie furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

Jon sighed testily. "You asked me a question before -- Why you?" He pushed a tuft of hair behind Richie's ear. "Remember, dipshit?"

Richie said nothing, but there was a gleam in his eyes.

Jon averted his gaze. "Well, I dunno why. You're just different to me." He quickly cupped Richie's cheek and kissed him so he couldn't reply. "That's all I got. So don't ask me again, OK?"

Richie had enough awareness to suppress his smile and nod. "'Kay."

He curled into Jon's side then, tossing an arm across his belly. Jon's first instinct was to mention the time, warn Richie not to settle in. But he didn't have the heart, or the will.

"Jonny?" 

"Hmm?"

"Does the house in Vancouver have a basement?"

Jon snorted then squeezed Richie's forearm. "No idea. That'll be the first thing I check, though."

Richie gave him a squeeze in return, then spoke softly, by his ear. "We won't have any privacy there."

Jon felt his gut turn. "I know."

"It won't be the same."

"I know."

"All the girls, in and out."

Jon exhaled heavily. "Why do you keep telling me things I know?"

Richie held on a little tighter, buried his head a little deeper. "I just want you to know I think about things, too."

Jon opened his mouth, but found he had no response. So he simply brought his hand to the back of Richie's head and started massaging circles there.

They stayed like that for a while, so quiet Jon could hear the next-door neighbors' kids coming home from school -- squawking as they ran onto their wooden porch. At some point, Richie shifted against his arm and hummed.

"What?" Jon murmured.

"Nothing," Richie replied groggily. "Just -- It feels good, what you're doing."

Jon stilled his hand, like he'd been caught being romantic. But then the moment of self-consciousness passed, and he smiled at himself.

"OK," he said. "I'll keep doing it."

And he did.

END


End file.
